Marked by Fire and Thunder
by Contramancer
Summary: Response to whitetigerwolf's Odinson challenge. The daughters of Loki and Thor are stolen, hidden in mortal forms, and to avert Ragnarok, Odin locates the child who will find them in Godric's Hollow. With lightning and fire on his brow, can Harrir Odinson find the goddesses when he goes to Hogwarts? HP/HG/DG, with Hermione as Thrud and Daphne as Hela. Rating: safe, not sorry.
1. Chapter 1

_**Marked by Fire and Thunder.**_

A response to Whitetigerwolf's Odinson Challenge.

Requirements:

- Harry is taken in and raised by Odin and Frigga as thier son

- Harry must have a good brotherly relationship with Thor and Loki

- Harry must fall in love with an Asgardian

- No M/M slash

- Harry must still face Voldemort at some point

Recomended:

- Harry knowing he's adopted

- Harry/Hela

- Harry/Enchantress

- Harry/Valkyrie

Other:

I would just like to add that Harry attending Hogwarts is optional. On one hand, he was raised in Asgard, so would have little need to attend Hogwarts. On the other, his birth parents attended, so he may want to go to be closer to them in some way.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_The universe runs in a circle, much as a serpent which eats its own tail. It is an infinite circle twisted upon itself, a cycle that courses from birth through life to death, and then to rebirth. The legends of the Old Norse set forth this saga, this Ouroboros of existence, from the crafting of the world, to the twilight of the gods. Yet this to is a cycle, for as the world is destroyed, so too is it born again, and the wheel that is the universe continues to spin..._

_**Chapter 1: A Road Less Travelled.**_

_The Urdwell, at the base of Yggdrasil._

Odin, son of Borr, All-father of the Aesir, was troubled. The cycle had begun anew, and his people were set once more on the path to Ragnarok. The runes he'd gained from being hanged upon Yggdrasil, pierced by his own spear, did not hold the wisdom he needed. His left eye, sacrificed at Mimir's Well, brought him the wisdom of the ages. All that he managed to glean was that something had to change, and that change had to occur soon. So he turned his steed and sought the advice of the Norns.

They numbered three, maiden, mother, crone, and each had provenance over an aspect of Fate and Time. Skuld, the youngest, an eternal teenager, governed the future, with all its potential, and the motherly Verdandi held the present in her grasp. Urd, the eldest of these beings who seemed to predate the universe itself, dominated the past, and it was their manner to weave the threads of mortals' lives, to spin, measure and sever them. They always spoke the truth, or at least, they never lied. The King of The Aesir knew well the difference between the one and the other. And yet, he had nowhere else to turn.

"Hail, Odin All-father," spoke Verdandi. "What dark design of thy wyrd brings thee to our well? As if we did not know."

"Thou seekest the answer to Ragnarok, again, dost thee not?" Urd chuckled harshly. "The struggle lies within mine purview, many cycles have come and gone, and Ragnarok with them. The solving of it has never been in _my _grasp."

Verdandi also laughed. "Nor lieth it within mine."

Skuld, however, scowled. "Within mine, it waits," she almost snarled, clearly not pleased with this turn of events. "Within this cycle, even. But the road is not without hardship, and the price thou must pay is steep." Turning to him, she smiled, a villainous smirk that Surt, King of Muspellheim, would have given much to master. "What price wilt thou pay, Lord Odin? What cost wouldst thou deem too high? If I impart thee the foreknowledge to turn this tide of time, the wyrd of so many, wouldst thee bind thyself to it?"

Odin listened to the voice of ancient wisdom echoing through his mind. "What price is it that I must pay, Skuld of the Norns?" he asked. "There is much I would sacrifice, but if I must destroy that which I wouldst save, what use to pay the price?"

The elder Norns deferred to their younger sister, the only one who could bespeak that yet to come, as she answered. "Thou must part with the advice of the Norns, for we canst not give advice that would turn the wheel from its path. A new road is unknown until it is travelled. Thou wouldst change the world, so thou must bind thyself from it, with but one journey of the world remaining to you. The unknown road is travelled by a new soul, with an essence unclouded by the past. Thou must free thy mind from its bonds and fears, and seek the new. A new soul holds not to old terrors."

Odin's thoughts were a twisted maze. The price seemed little enough, but there had to be a catch. The Norns never lied, but they seldom gave away _good_ news. There _had_ to be something, but Skuld had obviously given him all she would until he paid the price.

"By my Names and Powers, I accept thy price, and our bargain is struck," the All-father declared. Grinning like a Dwarf on a gold-heap, Skuld gave him the answer he'd asked for.

_Godric's Hollow, somewhere in the West Country, England._

_October 31, 1981._

The wanderer went by the name of Dino Wednesday, a one-eyed man in his early fifties to all appearances. He'd been in the area for a week, trying to find a lead on the whereabouts of his grand-daughters, missing for several months now. It was the considered opinion of one Bathilda Bagshot, village busybody, that there was something _odd_ about him. He rode a grey motorcycle with a silver horse emblazoned on the side, and the horse had twice as many legs as it should.

Odin All-father didn't care what the mortals thought. Someone had breached the defenses of Asgard to steal his grandchildren. In the process, they'd slain the giantess Angrboda, and grievously injured Thor's wife, Sif. From what Idunn said, apples or not, the goddess of skill in battle would have no more children. Loki's other children weren't as... helpless wasn't the word, vulnerable perhaps... and had fought. Of course, Fenris and Jormungand weren't exactly human in shape. With their mother dead, their father's wife, Sigyn, took them in at once, to raise with her twin sons.

As he strode the streets of the small village, looking around, with particular attention paid to those girls close to two years or so old, the King of the Aesir could not help but remember what the Norn known as Skuld had told him.

"_The first thing to be done, if thou wouldst turn the wheel from its course, is to feud not with Mischief. Should Mischief become malevolent, Ragnarok shall come, and the Shining Realm shall fall. Next, thou must embrace the children of Mischief, for should you fear them and turn away, Ragnarok shall come, and the Shining Realm shall fall. Last, should Power and Death be stolen away, they can only be returned by one marked by Fire and Thunder, for all three must become children of two worlds, or Ragnarok shall come, and the world entire shall fall."_

The wanderer saw them, two men who approached an empty lot, although Odin himself could see the cottage hidden behind layers of mortal magic. The one, a fat little man with a pointed nose, whispered something to the other, a tall, dark and evil presence, and the wards and protections on the house rippled, allowing them both entry. As the Asgardian began to run down the street, sounds of arguments, shouted voices and fighting, with wanded magics no less, broke free into the night. The screams of a woman, desperate to save her child, a hideous curse, and silence. Then the cottage exploded, and with nothing left to protect, the wards and enchantments disappeared completely.

Fighting his way forward against the magical shockwave, Odin reached the cottage's front door, and found the bodies. Lying just inside the door, a man with jet-black hair stared from lifeless blue eyes, defiance still writ large upon his face. He'd died well, this man, and would no doubt have been one worthy of Valhalla. As the Norse god moved forwards, he discovered what must have been the nursery, with a tattered set of black robes lying in the doorway. Recognising the clothes of the tall man, Odin looked around, but saw no corresponding body. Instead, crumpled against the wall by the crib, lay a young woman, not more than twenty summers of age, if that, with hair red as Thor's own. She too was dead, defending, or trying to defend, the boy-child in the crib.

Odin could almost taste the Dark Magic that made up what mortals called the Killing Curse, although it would have no effect on an Aesir or Vanir. Making his way to the crib, he was aware of the cracking sounds that announced the arrival of mortal sorcerers, those who named themselves witches and wizards. The poor child. Odin reached out to see the boy's face, lifting a fringe of scruffy black hair with reddish highlights throughout.

The child was warm and breathing! From what Odin knew, no small amount of lore by any count, the boy should be dead... yet he lived. And there! On the child's left brow was a flame-shaped scar, and on his right a bolt of lightning, although the scars pulsed as a Dark Magic struggled to take hold. A few runes, hurriedly sketched on the child in his own blood, soon put paid to that, and the King of the Aesir crushed the vile soul fragment beneath his heel, where it dissipated in a soft scream and a burst of sickly green smoke.

Sirius Black was the first mortal wizard on the scene, arriving in time to see the tall, one-eyed stranger emerge from the remains of the Potter's cottage with a bundle in his arms. Wand out, he could see Hagrid hurrying down the street towards them, a sign that Dumbledore was already in motion. Confronting the stranger was easy, and then a tiny, long disused section of memory piped up, and Sirius Black recognised the figure before him. "Lord... Odin... ? What..."

"There is a wyrd upon me, to change the wheel's path. The boy will be safe where I shall take him, and in time shall return. Spend thyself not in vengeance, Grim Hound of the Blacks. Set thyself to watch for him, to keep him safe when he returns. Thou must be his shield."

With those words, Odin mounted the motorcycle that was truly his steed, Sleipnir, and roared off into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 2: Eleven Years of Age and Counting.**_

_The Shining Realm of Asgard._

Harrir Odinson looked from the odd parchment in his hands to the exhausted owl barely holding its perch before him. He'd known this day would come for the past two years, when his father had taken him aside and told him he'd been adopted. He'd been born to the name on the letter, Harry James Potter, and one day he would have to go back. There was a wyrd upon him, it seemed. For Nine years he'd been Odin's son, raised by Lady Frigg, brother to Loki, Thor and Baldur. He'd been told of this wyrd, if not the exact details then at least the gist, when he was five. He'd pointed out to Loki that their mother forgot the mistletoe when protecting Baldur, and his big brother had chosen a dart of another wood to give Hod when he helped their blind kinsman join the game of throwing things at the god of beauty.

Odin had been heard to mutter on occasion that the boy had already turned the wheel, but no-one was sure of what he meant.

Harrir took an apple from his pocket and cut it into pieces with his belt-knife, before offering one to the owl. As the fruit worked Idunn's magic upon the creature, restoring the bird to its full health, Harrir ate the rest. He'd spent most of the day thus far in swords practice, and had begun to tire, and his strained muscles were nothing to joke about, either. By the time he and the messenger owl had finished, both were as good as new. He turned to the massive Eurasian eagle-owl, and held out his arm.

"Come along, my feathered friend," he told it. "Father will want to know this news, and you will be waiting to take back an answer."

The owl spread its wings and flapped across to the boy's arm. Then Harrir of the red-black hair turned towards Odin's palace and began to run.

* * *

_Diagon Alley, London._

Samantha and Michael Granger looked around them, very nearly gawking. Their daughter Hermione was already dragging them towards the nearest book store, which had a sign out the front declaring it to be Flourish and Blotts. Sam dug in her heels, though it had little effect. When Hermione wanted books, she was unstoppable. Luckily, she was a very reasonable young woman.

"Sweetie," Sam wheedled, "we only have a limited amount of money, and we need to make sure you have everything else on your list before we lose you in a book store."

Hermione reluctantly stopped, and shook her head, then shrugged her bushy brown hair back into place. "You're right, Mum," she agreed. "Maybe we should get the wand first?"

Michael agreed, and the small family walked up the street to Ollivander's, where a small bell rang as they entered. Already inside was a young-looking woman with jet-black hair, and her daughters, the elder of whom was roughly Hermione's age. It was this girl, with hair as black as her mother, that caught Hermione's chocolate-brown gaze. Her left eye was a brilliant sapphire blue, but the right was white, almost as if it were a glass eye, although it was obviously working perfectly.

As the two families sized each other up, the rail-thin old man who patently ran the store was fitting a young wizard to his wand. Seeing they had time to wait, the two mothers decided to make each others acquaintance. Stepping closer, the raven-haired woman spoke, her voice clear and resonant.

"Good day to you, sir, madam," she said. "I am Lady Katherine Greengrass, and these are my daughters, Daphne and Astoria." Daphne turned out to be the girl with the differently coloured eyes, and Astoria her two-years-younger brunette sister, by the introduction.

"I'm Michael, Granger," Hermione's father said in answer. "My wife is Samantha, and our little girl is Hermione." Before introductions could go any further, a commotion outside drew the attention of everyone in the Alley.

A tall and slender man with scruffy-looking curly black hair was moving around, pushing people back as he wielded several pieces of chalk to mark runes and two large circles on the street. He then filled the innermost of the two with an extremely complex Celtic knot scroll-work. The runes were between the two circles.

Hermione was entranced by the incredibly complex design. "Who is that, and what's he doing?" she whispered, only half to herself. Surprisingly, for her, she was answered by Daphne.

"That's Lord Black, the Grim-hound as some call him. He's one of the seven Lords of Magical Britain, with the others being Lord Greengrass, that's my father, Lady Bones, Lord Longbottom, Lady McGonagall, Lord Avery and Lord Potter. Lord Black is a bit... well, eccentric."

Hermione snorted. "In other words, mad as a hatter and rich as Croesus, right?"

Daphne smiled. "Yes, you could put it that way. As for what he's doing... How religious are you? I mean, your faith is your business and all, but I don't want to offend you or anything."

Michael Granger answered. "We're not fanatics, but we are Church of England. Why?"

Katherine took up the speech at this point. "To most witches and wizards, the Christian faiths were the ones trying to burn us. They failed for the most part, as its difficult to burn a witch who doesn't wish you to. The flame-freezing charm is easy to perform wandless with a little practice. For the most part, we magicals tend to place our belief in older faiths. The Norse and Celtic gods, the Greek and Ancient Egyptian deities..."

"What about Roman?"

"Greeks with better discipline, and bath-houses. The Blacks, and this one, Sirius, in particular, have an... affinity, of sorts, with the Norse beliefs, Asatru. It looks like some kind of magical beacon, but I'm not entirely sure what he's doing." Lady Greengrass was confused by the actions of the man outside, and wasn't happy with the feeling.

As the eccentric lord drew his wand and began an incantation in Old Norse, Hermione and Daphne each felt a shiver of anticipation. Something big was about to happen, something that would change their world forever.

* * *

Sirius Black was 'damaged goods', as far as the wizarding world was concerned. He was a hero, rushing to the rescue of Frank Longbottom, and intercepting the Death-eaters' Cruciatus curses with his own body when the going got truly desperate. That much pain, and almost anyone would have cracked. It was no surprise that once the Grim-hound was released from St Mungo's, his sanity was seriously, no pun intended (or was it?), damaged.

However, there was a world of difference between perception and reality. Sirius had as firm a grip on his sanity as ever, although if you'd asked Moony, that wasn't saying much. On that dreaded Halloween so long ago, he'd let Harry be taken away, and Albus Dumbledore had still not forgiven him. When he'd caught up with Pettigrew, he hadn't hesitated. With no lingering doubts as to little Harry's safety, he'd stunned the Rat right out of the gate, and used a wide area version of the body-bind to keep the muggle witnesses on hand until the aurors and obliviators could do their jobs. He'd even warned them of Peter's animagus form, and registered his own the next day, since the whole point of keeping it secret had gone out the window. Over the next eleven years he'd built himself a persona as a harmless eccentric with strong views as to protecting his people, and especially children. Then last night, he'd finally received the owl he'd been waiting nine years for. Harry was coming back. "_Prank the world, Padfoot. Prank the world."_

He intoned the last of the spell that sent forth a beacon for Bifrost to arrive, and incanted the activation phrase. "Ego levavi manum meam usque nihil boni ego sum."*

There were seven colours of light in the stream that poured from somewhere seemingly beyond the clouds, a stream that lasted a grand total of three seconds, and ended with a clap of thunder and a flare of fire, with a blinding strike of lightning. A cloud of dust and smoke gouted up from Lord Black's circle, obscuring vision for a few minutes as it slowly dissipated to reveal a boy with red hair so dark as to be almost completely black which stuck up at all angles in a style that could only be described as messy. His clothing was strange in some ways, familiar in others. His jacket and boots looked to be made of dragon's hide, as was his belt. His pants and shirt were practical rather than fancy, made of leather, and his right wrist bore a leather brace with a burnished steel wolf's head ornament.

But none of that was what drew the eye. It was his face. The boy's brow bore old scars, a lightning bolt on the right and a flame on the left. His hair was tied back, reaching his shoulders, and his skin was tanned, speaking of long periods spent out of doors. But the most telling feature was his eyes, a brilliant, almost shining shade of emerald.

Lord Black bowed before the boy, bringing gasps from those who understood the society in which he dwelt, and the man himself. Sirius Orion Black, crackpot eccentric like that Xeno Lovegood or not, _never_ bowed to anyone. Clearly the boy was even more important than they thought.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," the Grim-hound of the Blacks said. He then whispered in a voice pitched so that the boy alone could hear him. "Welcome back, Harry Potter."

* * *

* Latin: I solemnly swear I am up to no good. (What else? He is a marauder).


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 3: Supplies and Demands.**_

_Diagon Alley, London._

The crowd that had begun to gather when Lord Black showed up had been mostly blinded by the dust thrown up as the Bifrost had deposited its young passenger before them. His outfit loudly declared he wasn't from around here, and Sirius Black's attitude toward him told them the boy was important, somehow. As they started forwards, the boy spoke.

"Stand up, Lord Black, we have to get going." It was a simple statement, but one with great impact, as the one person no-one in the wizarding world could influence or predict did as the boy said, without hesitation. Those few who shared the faith of House Black, and thus knew of the few people (if that was the right term) to whom they would bend their knee, didn't recognise the boy as one of those few. It was a grand puzzle to them all, and the way the boy dressed and acted confused them.

As Lord Black pushed open the doors to Ollivander's, those people inside moved against the walls and shelves to clear a path for the pair, either showing respect for them, or not wanting to get in their way. Hermione was pushed, accidentally, into the girl next to her, and as they grabbed each other to avoid falling, close enough to see the roots of Daphne's hair. About to apologise, she paused for a moment as she noticed that the hair on the left side of her scalp was just beginning to show traces of white among the roots.

"_Odd... wonder why her hair's like that?"_ she thought, but didn't voice it, knowing full well why some one would want to hide as many oddities as possible. As they straightened, the girls both watched as the boy Ollivander had been serving, one Blaise Zabini, reluctantly left the store, following his mother.

"Now then," the old wand-maker said, "who is next?"

Lady Greengrass expected Lord Black to step into the gap, but the eccentric Grim-hound had taken a large loop of string from his voluminous pockets and was playing Cat's Cradle, while his young companion, who seemed in no hurry, was taking stones form a pouch within his jacket, polishing them, and then replacing them. Runestones, too, she noted. Stepping forwards, she spoke up. "I believe the order of your customers to be my daughter, Daphne, then the Grangers' child, and then this youngster," she said, indicating each respective child as she did. "Unless there is a quicker way to do this?"

It took Garrick Ollivander twenty minutes to find Daphne's wand, a 10¼ inch length of springy rowan with a unicorn hair core. Hermione's took longer, but after nearly a half-hour of trial and error, located the vinewood cored with dragon heartstring that fit her best. Finally it was the turn of the boy that had appeared from nowhere.

"And who might you be, young man?" the old wandcrafter asked, as the youth stepped up.

"Harrir Odinson, or that's how I was raised," the boy answered. "My birth name is a little different, but I'll answer to Harry."

After measuring Harry's arm, hand, fingers, the distance between his nostrils for some reason, and several other parts of him that Harry couldn't imagine having any thing to do with his wand, Ollivander began the tedious process of trying to find his wand, while in the background Lady Greengrass cornered Lord Black and tried to worm exactly who the youngster he had, for all intents and purposes, summoned into the alley. Sirius' answers were mostly questions that had little, if anything, to do with what she asked.

"Try this one, white oak and unicorn," said Ollivander, and a pulse of magic surged though the wand, detonating the lamp on his desk, before he yanked it away. "No, not that one. How about this one, rowan and phoenix, no? Pity, Hmm. Ash and dragon, that's not it." As the pile of rejected wands grew, the old man just got happier, spurred by the love of a challenge. After thirty minutes of searching, he paused, then fetched a wand from an out of the way shelf, muttering "I wonder," as he did. "Holly and phoenix feather, let's see."

The burst of magic through the wand was powerful, and the warmth and sparks rising from it intense, then the wand cracked, split, and shattered, leaving the core, a single feather of blazing red and gold floating before him. "Oh, dear," said the wandcrafter, "that _is_ rare. The core has most certainly chosen you, but the wood simply cannot contain your magic. I'll need to find out which one is best..." He paused as Harry reached inside his jacket and removed a length of wand-quality ash, which he held out. "_Surely not..._" he thought.

"Thirteen inches of ash, taken from Yggdrasil by my father," Harry said. "Do you think it might help?"

* * *

Daphne Greengrass didn't fully understand what was going on, but she did understand what the strange lad's last name would mean. "_He's one of the Aesir... but there's no Harrir in _any _of the legends, so where'd he come from?_" In his own way, the boy was as unique as she, although her brand of different was a little hard to conceal. There were far too few glamours that could conceal the eyes, the windows of the soul. Despite the heavy make-up concealing the true colours of her skin, and the dye that made her hair a uniform black in colour, there was no hiding her 'dead' eye. Her parents had been at a loss to explain her 'deformities', but they loved her anyway. Her younger sisters had no such problems, but she was unable to discern any difference in treatment between any of the four of them.

The grip of the bushy-haired girl was strong, keeping them both on their feet with no trouble, as the shop somehow acquired more people within it, aurors by the look of it. A large black man with a shaven head, and the infamous 'Mad-eye' Moody. It was the latter in the lead, as the senior on the scene, and their approach to Lord Black was anything but subtle.

"Black," called Moody, raising his voice to be heard over the murmuring in the shop and on the street outside, "what's this I hear about you blowing up the Alley?"

"Ahh, let me think," came the eccentric lord's reply. "I'd pass it off as religious observances, if I thought that would satisfy you. Actually, it was. But it wasn't, it was a beacon for a extremely long-distance form of transportation to get my god-son... hmm, there's two ways to take that, both true now, at that..." The Grim-hound's voice faded into mumbling as he apparently tried to recall exactly what to call the boy he'd summoned up from elsewhere.

Moody was never a patient man, despite his rampant paranoia. "Sirius!" he roared.

"Never!" came the reply.

"You're crazy if you think we can turn a blind eye on this," Moody... discussed at high volume, somehow managing to miss the three points of irony* in the statement, as he drew his wand. All other activity stopped, every person in the shop hanging on Lord Black's next reply.

"Tchah! Worst form of madness, that," Sirius said. "The conviction that you're sane. Sanity's over-rated anyway, I have no place for it. Except possibly under a Christmas tree, wrapped in pink paper, you know, that last present that everyone hopes isn't for them."

The old auror had had enough. He aimed his wand directly at the man he was sure was insulting him. As he began the incantation for the stunning jinx, he felt someone grab his arm. There was a brief blur as the world decided to go somewhere else very quickly for a few seconds, and the sensation that gravity wanted nothing to do with him. Both lasted as long as it took him to breathe in before he came to a crashing halt on his back, staring at Ollivander's chandelier, his wand pointed at one of the candles. While he struggled to breathe in, a face with the most intense emerald eyes and two very distinct scars on the brow entered his field of vision.

"Sorry, sir," Harry said, "but you were about to make a big mistake. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Harrir Odinson, he who rides, god of battle and sacrifice, brother of Thor, brother of Loki, breaker of prophecy. You and yours may know me by my mortal name... you see, I'm Harry Potter."

* * *

Once his new wand was completed, as confirmed by the immense shower of sparks that poured from the end of the nine-inch wand, along with a warmth that filled the room, Harry and Sirius left the store to gather his other school needs, with both the Greengrass family and the rather bemused Grangers trailing in their wake. Gossip and rumour ran before them, and the entire alley was talking about the sudden appearance of the 'Boy-who-lived', even if he didn't look much like the hero on the cover of all those children's books. For a start, _that_ Harry had glasses and only one scar on his brow. Their first stop was a store for luggage, where they purchased trunks, and then on to Madam Malkin's for robes. As they arrived, they just missed a family with platinum blond hair leaving, with the young boy complaining about the 'lack of quality service' inside. By the time they left, all three Hogwarts age children had received, at Lord Black's assistance and expense, school robes lined with supple dragonhide.

After wandering up and down the alley, they had only two stops left: Eeylops Owl Emporium & Magical Menagerie, and Flourish and Blotts. Hermione had been patient more than long enough, she felt, and insisted on their next destination being the bookstore.

Inside, the books sat on shelves that occupied every wall and most of the available space, with the exceptions sitting in large bins for second-hand books. Hermione's eyes glazed over a little as she wandered through the store, while the others gathered the books on their list, although Harry also purchased _The Compleat Runic Syllabus by Lexi Scriven_, citing the reason "I want to see how much they got right."

At the counter, as the Greengrasses, Grangers and Sirius paid for their necessary purchases, with the Grim-hound not even batting an eye at Harry's purchase, they were approached by what at first seemed to be a large stack of books with legs. As Hermione thumped the pile of books, more than an eleven-year-old should have been able to carry, on the counter, Harry looked around them. His scrutiny of their surroundings did not go unnoticed.

"What are you looking for?" the bushy-haired girl asked.

Harry grinned. "Just seeing if you left anything on the shelves," he replied, absently picking up one of the books and glancing at the title. "_Harry Potter and the Flight of Dragons?_"

Daphne spoke up then. "According to that one, you managed to vanquish a dozen dragons at the age of six, totally unbelievable, don't you agree?"

"I'll say. There was only one of them, I was eight at the time, and Fenris and Jormungand were helping me. Even then, we were just stalling till my brother and his hammer got there." Both girls inspected Harry's face and came to the same shocking conclusion. He was _not_ pulling their legs.

* * *

At the last stop, Sirius insisted on buying his godson an owl. A big, snowy owl. The Aesir boy was delighted. "Hello, girl," he said, as if the bird could answer, "and what might your name be, then?" He paused while the owl coughed, as if she were answering him, to the puzzlement of those around him. "Hedwig, is it? Pleased to meet you, I'm Harrir, or just Harry for short."

*A/N: Points of irony: turn a blind eye: Moody is missing an eye, Daphne has a 'dead' eye, and Harrir's adoptive father sacrificed his eye for the lore of runes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 4: Crimson and Metal.**_

_Platform 9 ¾, King's Cross, London._

Sirius Black of House Black, Second Lord of Magical Britain, folded up his newspapers. He'd bought the Daily Prophet not because he expected the truth within its pages, but to see exactly which brand of lies they were spouting. To his mind, the Quibbler was more accurate, even if you did have to wade through old Xeno Lovegood's fantastical creatures and conspiracy theories. He actually felt that was half the fun. It had been a hard nine years, although the messages Lord Hermiod had brought were a most welcome diversion, as making the world think he was... _slightly_ insane was a very fine tightrope to walk. Too little, and no-one believes you; too much, and...

As he watched the train retreat into the distance he muttered a quick prayer to the Allfather to watch out for the godling with the emerald eyes. If he was going to break the prophecies, he was going to need help.

As Sirius left the station, he failed to notice the man in the grey greatcoat who was watching him...

Harrir Odinson held Hedwig's cage on his shoulder as he strode up the corridor of the carriage. He was attracting stares, as he'd been told he probably would. He was lucky enough to find an empty compartment in the first carriage, and easily hefted his trunk into the overhead rack, one-handed. As he sat, he spotted the two girls from Diagon Alley. "_Was that a week ago now?_" he mused, even while he opened the door. Father Odin hadn't been able to tell him how he'd find the two goddesses, his adopted brothers' daughters, who'd been missing now for nine years. If they'd been hidden as mortals, his task would be even harder. Gods and goddesses could sense each other, but only if the one _being_ sensed knew what they were. There were so many ways to get around that, it simply wasn't funny.

"Miss Greengrass, Miss Granger," he called, gaining their attention, as well as that of a few others they were with. "If you're looking for a compartment, ladies, there's room in here."

The two girls were quick to take advantage of the offer... almost too quick, as if eager to escape the presence of that blond boy who seemed to be a would-be leader of... would brigands fit? Casting his gaze over the two boys flanking the other, Harrir was put in mind of miniature trolls, although he didn't think that they'd pass the admittedly low minimum intelligence requirement for such. As the two girls ducked into the compartment, the blond boy started forwards. From the other direction came two more boys, one dark-skinned and the other with dark red, almost brown, hair. Obviously finding courage in numbers, the blond began to throw his weight around.

"Who do you think you are, to interfere in my business?" he demanded. "You get out here now, Greengrass! And bring that uppity Mudblood with you, we still have to teach her a lesson."

It was a good twenty minutes later that Draco Malfoy woke up, staring at the ceiling of the carriage corridor through an entanglement of various limbs belonging to his friends, all as unconscious as he had been. His nose hurt, a lot, and he had dried blood crusted on his face. Not all of it was his own.

As Harry returned to the compartment, he looked around at the gaping mouths of the two girls as he shook out his hands to relax the knuckles. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked, concerned by their stares. From what Sirius had told him of Hogwarts, he'd been almost certain that something like this would happen, and had firmly set his responses in his mind. He didn't like bullies.

"That was Draco Malfoy," said Daphne. "His father was one of You-know-who's top people, everyone knows it, but he claimed the Imperius curse forced him to do it so he could avoid prosecution. That and 'donations' to various politicians' retirement funds got him off scot-free. There's going to be repercussions from this, you know. By the way, can we still call you Harry?"

After he'd assured the two girls that they could indeed continue to use the familiar form of his name, he was only too happy to talk about his home life. "I wasn't the only child who was different," he told his new friends. "Mamma Frigga was looking after me at the same time as my new brothers' wives were raising my... nephews, I suppose, although it's not entirely accurate. The inter-relationships of the Aesir and Vanir is decidedly different. Three of my 'nephews', as good a term as any after the blood adoption Father Odin performed, aren't human."

Daphne gasped in realisation, at the same time as Hermione's eyes widened. The bushy-haired witch, who'd hefted her trunk into place next to Harry's and in a similar manner, was the first to recover. "So your nephews are an eight-legged horse, a wolf the size of a large horse, and a serpent that can encircle the world. And on the other side, you've got two of the three strongest gods in Norse mythology. No wonder You-know-who's hiding from you."

"No, I don't," Harry replied.

"Don't what?" asked a confused Daphne.

"Know who," the godling answered. "If you use such a generic term, you could mean a Dark Lord, a god or goddess you don't want to name, or even the neighbourhood's stray dog. It's too imprecise. If you're scared of his name, your fear of him is greater, and that gives him what he wants, right? So make something up. Moldy Shorts, Dark Jerk, He-who-must-be-hyphenated, all those are good ones."

As Hermione and Daphne goggled at his words, Harry opened his book of runes. They could hear his muttered comments as he turned the pages, mostly consisting of such things as "That's wrong, it's just the opposite" and "I don't care how much intent you have, that one just won't work like that".

"What about nieces?" It was again Hermione who spoke, and Harry looked up from the pages he was reading with a somewhat blank look on his face. "You've told us about your nephews," she continued, "and I noticed you didn't say anything about girls. I was just wondering..." She let her voice trail off, a little disturbed by the vacant mask that was Harry's face.

"There are two of them," he answered slowly, with a voice devoid of emotional inflections, and his hands trembled as he fought to contain his anger. He didn't want to scare these two, and it wasn't their fault that the subject was... touchy. "I've never met them. There was a Fire Giant, a Muspellar, who managed to get into Asgard through a hole someone or something had eaten in the protections. He kidnapped them, before I was adopted, and from what I've been told, bound them into mortal forms. Father Odin found me while he was looking for them, and was forced to answer his wyrd, his destiny, to avert _another_ cycle of Ragnarok. Apparently, I'm the only one who can find them, and the rune-castings all point to me finding them at Hogwarts."

Daphne couldn't contain herself. "So you're not here to learn at Hogwarts, but to scour the halls and chambers in search of two long-lost Asgardian princesses?" she began. "You're going to search for them among the students, and when you find them, whisk them away across the Rainbow Bridge to an eternal life of glory and luxury?" She grinned. In unison with the bushy-haired girl who was rapidly becoming a good friend, she spoke. "How can we help?"

The four boys who knocked on the door were by no means as arrogant as the scion of the Malfoys. The foremost of the quartet was a tall black boy, accompanied by a reluctant red-head, a slightly morose blond and a sandy-haired Irish lad. "Excuse us," said the leader. "I'm Dean Thomas. Neville here lost his toad, and we're helping him look for it. I don't suppose any of you have seen it?"

"Sorry," answered Hermione, "I haven't seen any toads since boarding." Daphne shook her head to indicate she hadn't seen a toad either. She did, however, recognise the sandy-haired boy Dean had indicated.

"It's Longbottom, isn't it?" she asked, before Harry had a chance to answer. "You're the Longbottom Heir. Hang on, I remember how this goes..." She curtsied politely, hissing at her friends to follow her lead. "Scion Longbottom, I greet you in the name of my friends' and my own Houses. I am Scion Daphne Greengrass, Heir of the Ancient House of Greengrass, and these are my friends Hermione Jean Granger, first generation of Granger, and Scion Harrir Odinson, Harry James Potter of the Ancient House of Potter. To your House and your friends, we extend welcome."

Neville was a bit startled at being singled out like this, and his friends were also surprised by Daphne's formality which had suddenly raised their companion's heritage. As Neville stuttered out the appropriate reply, they, Harry and Hermione paid close attention, committing the forms to memory, for if they needed them at a later date.

"...and these are Ronald Bilius Weasley of that House," the red-head nodded, "Seamus Finnegan, cadet of House Fionevar," the Irish boy raised his hand in a sloppy salute, "and Dean Thomas, first generation of Thomas. For your welcome, we thank you." Dean solemnly bowed, sure that it could be a serious thing to offend the traditions of the Seven Ancient Houses. With the formalities dealt with, every person in the compartment relaxed, at least a little.

Harry spoke. "You mentioned a Toad? He went that way, swearing," he said. " I don't think he liked the way Ron ate the chocolate frogs."

The quartet of boys had left shortly after that, allowing the two girls to once again ask Harry if he'd let them help. "Of course," Harry replied, "god or not, I don't think I _can_ find them alone. Especially since they've been mortal for nine years. I really need to get them their apples."

"Could you explain that remark, Harry?" Hermione queried. "If you mean the Apples of Idunn..."

The black-haired godling nodded. "Traditionally, an Aes or Van is given an Apple when they turn ten. But since they weren't there, and they're in mortal forms, they need these Apples in order to recover what they've missed. They have no effect on anyone with no Aesir or Vanir blood in their veins, though."

Daphne threw her question into the talk. "So, how are you supposed to recognise them?" she queried. "You _did_ say you'd never met them, and I doubt even the Aesir can guess what they look like after nine years or more."

The nod he gave them confirmed that. "I was told to look for their attributes. Thrud is power." He was staring at the wall of the compartment, and missed the slight shiver that ran through Hermione when he mentioned that. "Hela is death." This time it was Daphne whom he missed shivering. "More than that, though, is that they'll both have certain traits that even their being forced into mortal forms won't be able to suppress." As he explained those traits, the train rattled its way northwards.

The last few minutes of the train ride were a scramble to change into their uniforms, although Harry just threw his robes on over his outfit, jacket and all. The uniforms were treated with a Sorting Charm, which would alter the Hogwarts crest on the front, as well as the white tie and trim, to the appropriate House's crest and colours. Then he was summarily ejected from the compartment to allow the girls time to change.

"So," asked Daphne as she donned her robes, "what do you think we've just volunteered for?" The second she'd found out what Harry was _really_ here to do, she'd not hesitated, acting on impulse to extend herself forwards. The godling had a... _pull_ to him, a personal magnetism that had nothing to do with his magical power or heritage. It was in the earnest way he presented himself, the matter of fact announcement that he was a god in Ollivander's store as an example. She simply hadn't even thought of _not_ giving him help, and it looked like the intelligent first-blood (a _much_ better term than first generation or muggleborn, if you asked her) hadn't either.

Hermione looked right into her new friend's eyes, ignoring the difference between them as an endearing quirk. Although she had no idea of it, she was every bit as susceptible to Harry's charisma as Daphne was. She'd felt the exact degree of hesitation as her friend when it came to helping the emerald-eyed godling. "You know," she answered, "I really have no idea. Just that this is certainly _not_ going to be boring!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 5: Begin as You Mean to Go On...**_

The view from the lake, packed in four to a boat, was incredible. As they approached the castle, the tiny Asian girl with whom they shared the boat gaped in wonder, and Hermione and Daphne were also very... impressed. Harry wasn't.

"It's a grand sight, don't get me wrong," he said, when they pressed him about it while waiting in the antechamber to the Great Hall, "but it's not a patch on the Shining Realm, where springs forth the Rainbow Bridge across the Ginnungagap." His eyes became somewhat unfocused, seeing the places he'd explored for the past decade.

Draco Malfoy was not a happy boy. First, he'd failed to assert his superiority, and second, he and his four allies had been soundly thrashed by _one boy_. Admittedly it was that Odinson freak, who thought he was a god, but still. As Harry's gaze cleared and he resumed talking with the three girls from his boat, Draco made his move.

Hermione looked up as the blond pureblood stepped forward. She noted the lack of formal introduction as the would-be bully-boy spoke. "So, mudblood..." Draco got no further as she reached out and grabbed the front of his robes, dragging him forwards one-handed, not noticing her own feat amongst her anger.

"My friends have explained that _that_ is an offensive and derogatory term," she said in hot rage. "Since we're just children, my suspicion is that you simply have not acquired your lessons in manners. Don't call me that again. Do you have anything to say?"

"How _dare _you?" he sputtered. "My father will hear of this!"

Hermione blinked twice. "Your father. I see. Allow me to illuminate the fallacies in this scheme." Her words were recited in a matter of fact tone, almost off-handed. "First: Your father isn't here, I and my friends are. Second: I suffer no particular fear of your father, since as a first generation witch, Newblood sounds much nicer than the term you used, I have little to no idea who he is. Third: How's he going to find out? I guess you'd better go tell him." With that, she hefted the slender boy in her grip and held him out over the water. "Ready to go?"

Shortly afterwards, Minerva MacGonagall to collect the first years for the Sorting, and carefully refrained from asking why Draco's robes were wet to the waist, simply using a Drying Charm on the sullen boy before she led them all into the Great Hall.

Harrir Odinson was a little put out when he discovered that the Sorting did not, alas, include the wrestling of a troll, but instead was nothing more or less than placing a hat on his head. The incident before Professor MacGonagall had arrived had been amusing, partly because of Draco underestimating the bushy-haired little witch's strength, and partly due to Hermione's abashed reaction afterwards.

"I don't usually _do_ that sort of thing!" she had muttered, low enough that only Harry and Daphne could hear her. "I have no idea why I did it now."

The Sorting itself came after the Hat sang a song to welcome the newcomers to Hogwarts, running through the various Houses and their virtues. Then the children were called, one at a time, to place the relic on their heads, at which point it would call out their House. It went fairly quickly, as the hat spent no more than a few seconds on any given student's head before calling out a House. In almost no time they had come to the 'G' names.

"Granger, Hermione," called Professor MacGonagall, and the young witch stepped forward. For the first time that evening, the Hat took it's time responding. Of course, in Hermione's head, a strange conversation was taking place.

"_Hmmm, a strange one, so full of knowledge, and yet there's more to you, than that,_" the Hat commented.

"_What do you mean?_" Hermione responded.

"_You aren't yourself, child, something is missing from you, and you are desperate to fill that absence, so you seek knowledge, which brings power, which you wish was enough. Yet that isn't all that you are, the thing that is hidden from you is still there, although even I cannot see what it is. Now, you have new friends to whom you can be loyal, the courage to face the fear of the unknown, ambition and cunning enough to gain your goals, but you still thirst to learn. Remember, little witch, knowledge is Power._" The tear in the Hat opened wide again as it called forth her placement: "RAVENCLAW!"

"Greengrass, Daphne!" was the next to be called, and she had a similar pause with the hat sifting through her mind.

"_Secrets aplenty in here, little one, fear of rejection, but a relentless cunning and ambition. So you wish to find someone who won't turn from your undisguised self? You'll need to work hard for that, and courage to face that fear of yours. Hmmm, still, it is a vast ambition... what's this? Better hidden than the other one, but you too are apart from yourself... Oh drat, these things happen in threes, don't ask me why. You're going to need every ounce of cunning you can get, but _**don't**_ forget your two new friends. I've sorted a Slytherin mind or two into Hufflepuff before, but this is the first time I need to put a Badger in..."_ The Hat roared out: "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry watched as his new friends were sent to different tables, but they glanced at each other, as well as at him, and nodded. It conveyed something, an unspoken loyalty, perhaps, maybe something more, while around them, the Sorting continued. Draco Malfoy got sent to Slytherin, without the Hat even touching his hair, in fact Harry would have sworn an oath that it scrunched itself up to avoid such contact. He was followed there by Pansy Parkinson, while Sally-Anne Perks was sent to Ravenclaw. Everyone knew what was coming and tensed to hold their breath, it was Potter next, everyone knew that...

"Puddifoot, Guinevere!" Except the parchment that Professor MacGonagall was reading from. As the petite blonde girl was quickly sent to Hufflepuff, whispers broke out around the Hall. What could it mean? They could all see him, right there, Why wasn't he Sorted? The answer came quickly.

"Odinson, Harrir!" As he strode forth, and the Hat came down on his head, the whispers trebled, in volume and in number.

"_Ahh, Mr Odinson, or is it Potter? An interesting conundrum you are, and the third piece of a distressing puzzle. You have what the others are missing, and with what's coming now the Breaker of Prophecy sits beneath me, they will need it. I'm sorry I can't tell you who they are. As for yourself, let's see..._" The Hat made a humming noise as time stretched out. "_Runic lore unparalleled, that's Ravenclaw. A loyalty to your family and friends that no-one can crush, definitely Hufflepuff. The cunning to plan and plot like Uncle Fox himself, very Slytherin and the Weasley twins have competition. But here: the courage to throw yourself into a battle against the odds and win it, your godhead of Battle and Sacrifice, and your willingness to set predestination on its ear._" The Hat was definitely grinning at this announcement. The old meddler would finally get what he thought he wanted, but it would _not_ be on _his_ terms... "GRYFFINDOR!"

The students in that House were uncertain, every instinct pushing them to yell "We've got Potter", but with his adopted name of Odinson, it didn't sound right.

After the last child was Sorted, the Headmaster stood. "Before we eat, I wish to say a few words. A few words. Now dig in!"

Muttering about things being too good to be true, Harry did so. The four boys he'd met on the train had all been sorted into the same house as he, and the bright red stood out on their robes quite well. In Harry's case it was the gold that was most prominent. He was making small talk with them when the red-headed boy, Ron Weasley spoke up.

"Sorry about your girlfriends not getting into Gryffindor." His voice was somewhat flat, as if he was speaking reluctantly. "I guess you'll be looking for new ones now?" Harry froze, not just from the rudeness in the other boy's words, but from a realisation that they _all expected him to abandon the girls_. He was angry. He could feel it building inside him as the Crimson Quartet, as he'd started to think of the first-year Gryffindor boys, continued to talk. No, it wasn't all of them, he realised. Dean and Neville were a bit upset at their new friends' attitudes, which might build enough for them to either rupture the friendship, or adjust the way of thinking the other two seemed set in. The first was more likely, though. The section of Harry's soul that held his Aesir godhead sparked. As the outsider, _he_ would be able to adjust their thinking without breaking up that quartet, but it would mean sacrificing any possibility of friendship with them. For a brief moment, another lifetime flashed before his eyes, one where he was friends with Ron's circle, before he pushed it away. He'd have bet that Ron would turn against him, significantly, at _least_ three times before graduation.

"Weasley," Harry said quietly, striving to conceal his anger, "I'll make you a bet. The game is chess. Beat me, and I'll sever all ties with those outside the House. Lose, and you sincerely try to make at least two friends from other Houses. What do you say?"

The ginger was unable to resist showing off at the game. "I'll warn you, I haven't lost since my Uncle taught me to play." He grinned. "That was five years ago."

Harry snorted, as much at the amateurish taunt as the implication he'd lose. Chess was a game of _battle_, after all. "So, you haven't played since then? What a shame." He shook his head in mock sympathy as the redhead gaped at him, then set up the board using his own pieces, muttering "Svarte" as he did so, turning them black. The King was a one-eyed man on a throne with two wolves at his feet and two ravens on his shoulders. Beside him stood the Queen, a stately woman in a cloak of feathers, leaning on a spear. The Bishops were a man with fire dancing on his shoulders, and a woman standing before a fireplace, while the Knights were a sturdy man wearing a steel gauntlet on his left hand and a chessboard for a shield, and a large wolf. The Rooks had been crafted as a Serpent of indeterminate size, although the longship in its mouth as it rose from the base gave a clue, and an almost impossibly muscular man with a massive hammer raised in one hand. Finally, the pawns resembled nothing less than Vikings. Ron gaped at the hand-carved set, which had seen a _lot_ of use from the polished gleam where they'd been lifted and moved so many times. Anyone who knew anything of Norse myth was able to name the gods the major pieces represented. "Is it a wager?" Harry asked, almost ritually, the other Gryffindors observed.

"You are on," Ron gleefully chortled.

The game was over Ron moved, Harry had a counter waiting. After five minutes of play, not even enough time for the other students in the Great Hall, to finish their meals, and with Harry paying as much attention to his own meal as to the game, although with far better table manners than his opponent, the red-headed boy was forced to move his queen to block a bishop's line of attack as all Ron's other pieces were either pinned, or too far away. Harry then slid the knight into place for a Checkmate. As Ron stared unbelieving at the board, Harry spoke quietly.

"God of _Battle_ and _Sacrifice_, Weasley. Both are needed in chess, which I was taught to play by my father. Odin once played at chess with entire kingdoms as the board. Remember: at least two friends from other Houses. They can be from the same House if you want, and it has to be honest friendship. No strings. I'm not dictating further terms, and you don't have to be friends with a Slytherin if you don't wish to. If you make an honest try and are pushed away, no penalty. But do try, alright." Turning from the Crimson Quartet, the godling looked over at the Ravenclaw table. It looked like two of the older girls had started in on Hermione...


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 6: Knowledge is Power...**_

It had started as subtle digs at her heritage from the two second year Ravenclaws. By the time Harry had trounced Ron at chess, it had escalated to slurs on her knowledge base, and how she'd been 'hanging all over the Boy-Who-Lived like a right little trollop'. Tears had filled her eyes, so she couldn't see anything, and the reassuring feel of the goblet in her tense hand was rapidly becoming less so. Putting it down, not even noticing how the metal had been warped and twisted, as though by some unimaginable pressure, the bushy-haired witchling gripped the table in a failing attempt to keep her temper. As the two older witches, who were oblivious to the goblet, or indeed anything but the tears they were causing her, smirked in triumph, believing that the younger girl would never trifle with _them_ now, Hermione lost it.

Fortunately for Cho Chang and Marietta Edgecomb, she didn't really want to hurt anyone if she could avoid it, so she redirected her frustration. With a choked off cry of anger, she punched the table. The results were perhaps more impressive than she'd intended, but for some reason her blood was singing. _This_ was what she was meant for, _this _was her calling, and all her knowledge was to help it along. As the chorus of steel on steel rang through the halls of her mind, the table _shattered_, leaving a ten-foot-wide gap where she'd struck it. As the hall went silent, not even the poltergeist Peeves making so much as a peep, Hermione realized what she'd done, and hid her face in her hands in embarrassment. Which is why the sound that broke the silence was so surprising.

A long, slow clapping sounded from the Gryffindor table, and all attention was instantly shifted to the person who would applaud such a furious demonstration of might. "Bravo," called Harrir Odinson. "I tip my hat to you, or would, had I a hat."

Standing, he made his way to the Ravenclaw seats (their table, alas, being either absent or in pieces, or both) and dug into the soft Mokeskin pouch at his belt. His hand emerged clasping a single apple with a golden hue to its flesh, and placed it in the stunned Hermione's hand. "Please, this is for thee. Never had I thought to find one of you so swiftly, Thor's daughter. Best you eat that now." He released her hand, and the young witch stared at the apple in her hand, wondering if she dared eat it. Seeing him watching, she made up her mind and bit deep into the golden fruit.

To anyone else, save two, all they saw was a girl with brown eyes and bushy-hair eating an apple. But Harry and one other saw more. As Hermione devoured the apple, they saw a golden light fill her mortal frame, adding its divine essence to the girl's form. When she'd finished, the fruit was completely gone, core and all, and her eyes shone brighter, her hair and skin were more vibrant, more _alive_, than they had been before. With a subtle feeling, not unlike the snap of the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle fitting into place, she was fully and completely herself... Hermione Jane Granger, Thrud Thorsdaughter, goddess of Power and First Rider of the Valkyrior...

The rush of self-awareness, of self-knowledge, was too much, and she fainted.

* * *

Harry caught the fledgling goddess as she collapsed, bracing himself as the inner lightning responsible for the frizziness of her bushy hair tried to escape through him, but was unable to do more than dance across his robes. "_Hmm. Perhaps I should have done that in private?_" he mused. "_No, she needed this now. She's actually the oldest of us, and if she'd reached her next birthday..._" He shivered at the thought of the girl now in his arms being left mortal forever... or at least until Ragnarok, because he couldn't stop it, couldn't break a prophecy that big, without her. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up at the face of his Slytherin friend, Daphne.

"Did you know?" He expected that question from her, and the sooner he answered, the better. She would not forgive him easily should he lie.

"I... may have suspected, but I wasn't certain," he replied as Madam Pomfrey reached them, and began casting diagnostic spells, the results of which baffled her. No witch in her many years of experience had such a high health index, and even touching the girl told her that the witches power was growing. Harry continued to speak, even as the Great Hall finally burst into a murmured cacophony. "I first suspected something at Flourish and Blotts, when she was carrying that stack of books twice her height, and I became fairly sure on the train, when she was handling her trunk like most others would a purse. But I didn't _know_ until I saw her goblet." He pointed at the mangled lump of metal.

Daphne was somewhat taken aback. She began to retreat into her 'Ice-Queen' mode, an emotional blankness that shielded her from hurt.

"So, I guess you won't need my help, now that you've found your goddess." She was sure she was losing her only friends outside her family who didn't want something from her, and it was painful.

"What gave you that idea?" Harry's casual reply gave her pause. "There's another goddess around here somewhere, and you may very well find her before I do. And even if I found her in the next five minutes, why wouldn't I want to be your friend? I wouldn't be able to look at myself in the mirror if I abandoned you like that, and Freya told me I'd look ridiculous with a beard in a few years." Before the witch could respond, Madam Pomfrey rose, announcing that there was nothing wrong with Hermione. Indeed, no sooner had she said this than the bushy-haired girl's eyes fluttered and opened.

* * *

The first thing the fledging goddess saw was the face of Harrir Odinson. Blushing as she realized she must have her head in his lap, she stammered as she struggled to her feet. "Th-thank you, Harry," she murmured, taking in exactly who was closest to her. The staff had managed to repair the table, magically of course, and as she glanced in their direction she saw chagrin and fear writ large on the faces of her would-be tormentors. She smiled at Daphne, who winked, but maintained the aloof expression as she returned to the Slytherin table, where she promptly was accosted by Draco Malfoy. Frowning a little, she thought hard about what she should do now. She'd have to see what the library here had about the Old Norse gods...

Back at the Gryffindor table, Harry was the target of an impromptu inquisition. It was Neville, from the 'Crimson Quartet' who broached the subject. "Harry," he asked, "what was all that about?" Harry smiled enigmatically.

"This isn't for everyone to know," he replied, and was immediately assured of the Quartet's silence on the matter. "You remember I'm an Aesir, a Norse god, right?" This received somewhat puzzled nods. "Well, besides learning wizardry and embracing my mortal heritage, I have a task my father gave me." With that, he launched into an abbreviated version of his quest.

Seamus was most impressed, Dean was moderately sceptical, and Neville believed without question. Ron didn't know what to think, but he was used to that. He'd have to write to one of his brothers about this, or maybe both Bill _and_ Charlie, so they could shed light on this in words he understood. Mum, font of useful advice that she was, wasn't likely to be of help in this situation.

"But how can the buck-tooth bookworm be a goddess?" he asked before thinking, not realizing said goddess was standing behind about to ask for a moment of Harry's time. He became aware rather rapidly, however, as the crackling of the lightning in her hair grew. He went pale as she placed her hand on his shoulder, causing his own, decidedly ginger locks to rise till every hair stood straight out from his scalp.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said in a tightly controlled voice, as the excess of what she'd thought to be static until a very short time ago flowed down her arm and into the red-haired boy. "Could I borrow Harry for a while after dinner. I _really_ need to talk with him, please." As one, the three remaining boys looked at Ron, who had smoke starting to trail off the ends of his hair, then at each other, then finally at her.

"Be our guest," Seamus said, speaking for them all. "I'm sorry our friend has offended you, but could you see your way clear to letting go of him?" The girl looked suddenly at Ron, with false surprise all over her face.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there, Ron," she exclaimed in mock regret. "I'm new at this sort of thing and don't have much control, that's why I need to talk to Harry." So saying, she released his shoulder, and the interruption of the flow of power into the boy caused him to collapse to the ground as every muscle in his body relaxed. _Every_ muscle.

As Hermione wrinkled her nose at the sudden bad smell, fortunately not accompanied by anything solid, Harry nodded. It was all he could do, as he was literally rolling on the floor, laughing as hard at Ron's misfortune, for all that the currently twitching boy glared at him, as at any pranks Loki had ever pulled. Even the Trickster god's face when Harrir had filled his fireplace with a snow sculpture of a smiling man wasn't this priceless.

* * *

Across the Hall, Daphne saw her new friend laughing at the Weasley boy, and a small smile came to her face. "_A study group,_" she decided. "_That should give us a decent excuse to be working together._" As she ate quietly she paid attention to those around her, listening for important news as her parents had taught her to do, and as she'd thought, Harry and Hermione (Harrir and Thrud? Those names would take getting used to.) were the main topic of conversation. She herself was on the receiving end of glares from Draco Malfoy, but although she was certain the blond boy had 'sworn revenge' on the girls who'd been the start of his downfall, she was not equally certain that he was much of a threat. For at least the next few months, maybe longer, his ultimate threat was 'When my father hears of this...', and that was easily dealt with, as Lord Greengrass was one of the Seven, and so was Sirius Black, and, technically speaking, Harry Potter, although he couldn't wield the political power directly until he was fourteen.

At the end of the feast, as the prefects were ushering the first-years to their new dorms, she glanced back at the two friends she'd made in Diagon Alley, and on the Express. They were talking quietly and quickly, and as Daphne turned to pat attention to where she was going she bumped someone, and muttered a quick apology before hurrying after the rest of her school House. Behind her, stopped part-way through their conversation, were the Bloody Baron and the Fat Friar, with whom she'd collided, two of the Hogwarts ghosts, staring in the direction she had gone.

"I'm no seer," stated the Hufflepuff ghost, "but that one will need watching, I'm sure. I do not envy you in the least, old friend." The Baron nodded his head in silent agreement.

* * *

Somewhere in the utter blackness, a creature of unstoppable hunger and insatiable appetite stirred. Something was wrong. Ragnarok should have begun by now, the path to it at least. If losing sons had turned the Trickster against Odin the first time, surely losing daughters would drive he _and _the Thunder to revolt, and the world would die that much faster, leaving more to devour, possibly even enough to sate him for a time. But some one had done something, seen something, to change that. As Niddhog, the Devourer of All, looked towards Midgard, he could see the children his agents had placed, less one year from true mortality, and their deaths shortly after. Even as he watched, one of them flared gold and vanished from his monitoring spells. _What had changed, who did this?_

Forcing his sight to focus from the curses and hexes on the other fading goddess, he caught the barest glimpse of Power, the daughter of Thunder, and the golden light of her godhead's awakening. Yet, she was not the only god he saw. There was a boy, a child marked by fire and thunder, glowing just as brightly, never mind that it took gods and dragons to see the light that cascaded off them. As he watched, a fleeting moment before being forced to halt, lest he damage the remaining curses, Niddhog realized he did not know the godling who was ruining his plans, and breaking the prophecies...


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 7: A Ghost of a Chance.**_

There was something disturbing, Daphne decided, in being followed, even at a distance, by the Bloody Baron. There was, of course, a silver lining as she climbed the stairs from the dungeons. Draco Malfoy decided _not _to ambush her on the way to breakfast. As she approached the Slytherin table, she saw Hermione being intercepted by Professor Flitwick, who said something low that no-one else heard. When the fledgling goddess nodded and then continued on to breakfast, Daphne noticed that Harry was likewise delayed in his approach to the tables. Professor Dumbledore must want to talk to them, she decided as she sat down. She was running names and faces through her head, trying to figure out who might be the other young goddess that Harry was looking for. She didn't have a clue. No-one she looked at seemed to fit the mould of hidden Norse goddess, no matter what she tried. Sighing she reached for her pumpkin juice, vaguely wishing it was apple juice instead...

Hermione wasn't sure what to do. This had never happened at home. Her momentary display of temper last night had gotten those Ravenclaw bullies to back off for now, but now she had to talk to the headmaster afterwards. If she didn't miss her guess, she was certain Harry was in the same boat, figuratively speaking, although if she thought about it, it had been literal, too. The class schedules were handed out that morning, and there was a great deal to look forward to, she just wished her friends were in class with her more often. The way this schedule was arranged, all three would only share the Defence Against Dark Arts class, run by Professor Quirrel. Then there was Potions with the Hufflepuffs, Transfiguration with the Slytherins and finally Charms with the Gryffindors. She was barely going to make it to her classes if this talk went on too long.

Harry ate carefully. Something about this stank worse than a troll's backside. Why did Dumbledore want to speak with them? What was the old wizard looking for? Being pulled aside last night for what happened would have made sense. This... this smacked of something sinister, something cold and cunning. He would have to remember the lessons Father Odin and Loki had managed to get into his brain about dealing with tricksters. "To trick a trickster," his adopted big brother had said, "you must get him to think he's tricking you. If you're too obvious, he'll know you're onto him, but if you're too subtle, he'll think he missed his aim." Dumbledore had been Headmaster and politician for a larger chunk of years than Harry'd been alive. This would call for real finesse. As his eyes lit on the half-giant Keeper of Keys and Grounds, Harry smiled inwardly. If only he could call Fenris.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore had looked at the boy. He had no idea how he'd managed to fiddle around where and how he was supposed to be announced on that parchment. It must have had to do with the people who'd raised him, whoever they really were. That bit of theatrics in the Great Hall last night would need suitable chastisement, such an elaborate play might be enough to cement his 'divine' status, and that of the girl, amongst the gullible, but you had to get up a lot earlier in the morning to pull the wool over _his_ eyes. He'd carefully considered each aspect of what had happened last night: a Reducto for the table, clever and well hidden till the girl hit it, followed up with a coloured Lumos on the girl as she ate the apple. No, they weren't gods, they were just following some insane script laid out by Lord Black, he was certain of it...

Minerva McGonagall was quietly discussing the previous night with Filius Flitwick in low tones. She was a Scot, and he half-goblin, both invested with a state of mind that held the Bard's line to be particularly apt. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," indeed. The girl's strength was one such factor. Professor McGonagall had seen it first hand at the bookstore, and with her trunk, which no-one but Hagrid had been able to handle without copious amounts of magic. Filius had received missives from one of his full-blooded goblin cousins about 'Lord Potter, Harrir Odinson' and certain protocols that Lord Black had insisted on. The two of them had been told by Albus that their presence at the meeting between Headmaster and students was unnecessary, but they planned to invoke those protocols...

Severus Snape was trying, with an exceptional degree of success, _not_ to jump to his feet and do a Snoopy-dance. The boy, Potter's son, lived and was ripe for his vengeance. He wasn't sure about this Aesir thing, but he would have been a failure as a Slytherin if he didn't gather _all _the intelligence on the matter as was available before making his next move in this game that had been years in the playing...

* * *

Peeves was bored. After all that excitement last night, nothing! Nothing, tra la la! (One of the muggle-born students had left a copy of 'the Labyrinth' lying around, and Peeves had, for _some_ reason, identified quite strongly with poor, much put upon Jareth the Goblin King. Never mind that the Goblin King should look like a goblin, not David Bowie). In his boredom he decided to have some fun. "_Eenie, meenie, oh to heck with it,_" the poltergeist thought. Slytherins had no sense of humour, so they were more fun to prank. Ducking beneath the floor, Peeves surfaced under the table and popped up through it, screaming out "You remind me of the babe!" as he did, directly in Daphne's face, as it happened. Daphne had never read the book, and her reaction to someone jumping at her out of nowhere had been ingrained in her muscle memory by Lord Greengrass himself, a duellist of no small calibre.

Before the poltergeist could say or do any thing else, the girl had lashed out, realising it would do no good as she did, but already committed to a nose-breaking punch. Peeves saw it coming, and didn't bother to duck, knowing he was safe from any physical assault. As it turned out they were both wrong.

With a loud crunch, the ectoplasmic cartilage of Peeves' nose was spread wide across his face, and the unconscious haunt was sent flying across the Hall to the Hufflepuff table, where he 'landed' for given values of the word, in the tray of bacon. No-one wanted any of it now for some reason. From all across the hall, eyes turned towards Daphne, wondering where the magic had come from for that. Among them was a pair of emerald green eyes, attached to a quick and ready mind that was still shocked. "_Both of them,_ already_?_" he thought.

As the godling stood from his seat, retrieving the other apple from his belt pouch, and the teachers began to protest whatever he was doing, Quirinus Quirrel's mind was over-ridden by his passenger, who dragged their body to its feet and moved to intercept the boy. That apple would be his! That apple would make him a god! As he passed the Ravenclaw table he was running, yelling "IT'S MIIIINNNE!" as he stretched out to grab the golden fruit. Harrir caught him by the throat, which promptly began to smoke and sear, and a black wraith-like shape poured out, still reaching for the apple. Quirrel's body was dead in less than a second, and the wraith that was Voldemort's spirit was revealed to all. Harrir flinched in pain as the Dark Lord's spirit strained to reach for the immortality in the boy's other hand without actually coming in contact with the godling.

Voldemort's chances were slim to begin with. He now had no body, thus nothing to eat the apple with, but likewise there weren't any wizards or witches who could touch _him._ He may have tipped his hand, but true immortality awaited in that apple, and he was going to have it! They got slimmer as he couldn't possess someone without some connection to the victim, whether that was by fealty, blood or some other more esoteric binding. And the last straw came and went as Daphne and Hermione entered the fray.

Hermione, who was also Thrud, knew now that knowledge wasn't just power, but that power could also be knowledge, and as she looked at Voldemort's wraith, she knew he'd die in battle. But it wouldn't be this one, more's the pity. Still, since he was going to die in battle, that gave her some purchase as she pulled the shadowy spirit back from Harry. Harry for his part stretched out the apple in his other hand towards Daphne, calling for her to eat it. Daphne took the apple and ate as quickly as she could, unsure of how long the other two could hold off the wraith.

Hermione, despite her full strength, despite the power she now stood as an incarnation thereof, was fighting a losing battle. Her slight leverage was insufficient to hold the wraith that was Voldemort as the dumb-struck wizards and witches within the Great Hall watched, even as Snape was bellowing some nonsense about detentions, point losses and expulsion sounding like he'd never been happier, all for 'disrupting the school, and attacking a teacher'. Harry's attempts to help, limited to intercepting the remnant of the Dark wizard's spirit with touches that seared the thing's fragile soul, causing pain but no real damage, were of little use in the long run. Occasionally the beleaguered children caught a glimpse of the table where the staff, except Snape who was _still_ ranting about their 'disobedience and rebellion', had their wands out looking for an opening to do _something_.

Daphne swallowed the last of the apple, and even as the wraith hurled itself towards the ceiling in a final, frustrated escape, she awakened to herself. "_Why didn't I think of that?_" she demanded of herself as her internal divinity woke up, sparking a cascade of her magic similar to Hermione's the previous night. "_Why didn't I even think of being her myself?_"

The magic pouring off her drove all traces of her concealing make-up and dye from her, revealing her entire right side to be distinctly strange, with jet black skin and bone white hair, and her 'dead' eye almost glowed with eldritch energy as she recognised herself. No wonder she'd been able to deck Peeves, the pesky poltergeist had _not_ perished in battle, and was therefore _hers. _If there had been any doubt in her mind, Harry and Hermione dispelled it as they embraced her. _Her_, Daphne Elizabeth Greengrass, Hel Lokisdaughter, goddess of Death and Queen of Restless Souls...

* * *

Somewhere beneath the World-Tree, the Devourer of all screamed in rage and frustration as the other goddess was wrenched free of his enchantments. Time was against him now, he had a matter of two mere mortal months, at the most, in which to invoke the beginnings of the End Days, to summon up Fimbulwinter and call forth Ragnarok...

His own puppet was more valuable in place as yet another puppeteer in turn, a spider in the web, but the fire giants... Surt would be only to happy to cook Niddhogg's meal for him...


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 8: Setting the Stage.**_

Sirius Black stood at the door to the Greengrass Manor, waiting a response to his knock. There was a bell and chain next to him, well within easy reach and placed for convenience, that he completely ignored because it was there. Receiving the letter from Lord Harrir Odinson was a good thing, in his opinion. The godling had already found both of the girls – sorry, goddesses – he was looking for, and had asked his dog-father to arrange a meeting with their mortal parents. Hence his presence on the doorstep. He smiled at the thoughts of the puns and pranks he could use. It was a gift...

The door was opened by a man standing no taller than Sirius himself did, but with easily four times the weight, mostly in dense slabs of muscle. "Greetings, Lord Black," said the infamous Alexander Greengrass. As did Sirius, he followed the Aesir's way, but where the Grim-hound would be termed a follower of Loki, Lord Greengrass was most assuredly a follower of Thor. The inherent irony, that each was in the House best suited for the attributes of the other's patron, was not lost on them, even while they were at Hogwarts. "May I ask what brings you here today?"

"Greetings Lord Greengrass," Sirius answered. "I'm here on business, I'm afraid, not formal, but certainly necessary. I dare say your lovely wife has told you of the incredible events of Diagon Alley the day Lord Harrir arrived?"

"Indeed. Are we done being formal, yet? It itches." Alexander stepped back, waving his old schoolmate inside. "Come in, and have a seat. There's nothing that says we have to discuss business on the front stoop."

Inside the walls of Greengrass Manor, he showed the former auror to a long table, where his wife already sat nursing a large mug of coffee, along with her newest friends, Mike and Sam Granger, as they too had been invited to this very serious meeting. She waved at the pot in the middle of the table, next to a jug of creamy milk and a sugar bowl. "Help yourself, Lord Black," she invited as that worthy sat down. While Sirius did so, Alexander took the seat at the head of the table.

"So, what exactly is it that brings the Grim-hound of the Blacks to our doorstep?" he asked. "I know you said business, but what exactly are you talking about there?"

Sirius dropped three cubes of sugar into his coffee and stirred. "Katherine, you recall who I was escorting about the Alley, that day?" At the Lady Greengrass' nod, Sirius began to clarify. "Lord Harrir, known to most as Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was sent to Hogwarts to find his adoptive father's granddaughters. Bear in mind that doesn't make them his nieces. It was assumed that this task, set upon him by the All-father himself, would take years. To put some background on it, twelve years ago, someone managed to infiltrate the Shining Realm, and abduct the daughters of Thor and Loki. Around this time, the one who called himself Lord Voldemort was solidifying his power base through destruction and terror. The goddesses Thrud and Hela were taken from their families, and hidden away in mortal forms, to allow their godhead to drain away, rendering them mortal so they could be killed. The only way to mange that was to use certain arts to cause them to undergo a... rebirth, of sorts. The goddesses were placed within the wombs of mortal women, whence they would be born mortal, and should twelve years pass as mortals, be bound to that state." He sipped at his coffee as the others he shared the table with absorbed that information.

It was Michael Granger who next spoke. "While I'm sure we'd be happy to help you find them, why do I get the feeling that's not why you wish to speak to us all?"

The Grim-hound smiled. "Because it's not, Michael. I'm sure you remember the way I acted that day. My public face, the genial and possibly benevolent madman. I got the idea from Dumbledore's example. Sadly, most people don't have room in their heads for more than one image of a person, which gives you an advantage if you can exploit it. After all, if every one knows I'm eccentric..."

Alex interrupted him. "That's 'mad but with lots of money', isn't it?"

Sirius ignored the break with something that resembled dignity. It wasn't, but it might pass in a bad light. "Eccentric," he said, emphasising the word, "they're hardly likely to change their minds without some very strong evidence. As a result, it confuses people when I act outside their petty definitions." He grinned. "Back to our original topic, however. Now, what neither I nor his family ever even conceived of, was that he'd find, not one, but both goddesses within hours of being sorted. He sent Hedwig with a message for me, telling me all about it, including their apples, the confrontation with Voldemort's wraith, and the identities of said goddesses. The mortal ones, that is."

Samantha muttered. "I get the feeling I'm not going to like this."

Sirius' smile this time was sad and apologetic. "The reason I wished to talk to all of you is simple, yet horribly complicated. Thrud and Hela are Hermione and Daphne."

For a moment there was silence, and then the (very loud) demands for him to explain himself began.

* * *

While Harry's godfather was discussing the consequences of the girls' heritage with their parents, Harry and the girls were sitting in their first Potions class. The teacher, one Severus Snape, was not a happy man and seemed to _loathe_ Harrir on sight. The first thing he did in class was an inspiring speech that had the raven-haired boy eager to learn, and he copied the speech verbatim... only for the teacher to call him for not paying attention. The unfairness of that situation made Harrir glad that Tyr wasn't here. The quiz he launched into made the godling very glad he'd read ahead.

"What," Snape sneered, "would I get were I to blend powdered asphodel root with an infusion of wormwood?"

Harrir thought quickly, even as Hermione raised her hand, and answered before Snape could declare him ignorant. "Depending on the preparation method, heat at which they're mixed, order and presence of other ingredients, there are many options to choose. Going by the limited information you gave, sir, I would say the most common outcome is a draught of Living Death."

The surly wizard was momentarily taken aback by the completeness of the boy's answer. Perhaps something more difficult? "Where would I find a bezoar?"

"Again, the exact definition varies. The ones I assume you to be talking about are an antidote to most known poisons, can be purchased at most apothecaries, and are harvested from the stomach of a goat, sir." Harrir's tone and words conveyed a respect that Snape felt dwindling as he spoke the last question, a bit of a trick question, at that.

"What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" Surely this would trip the brat up it wasn't taught until sixth year... Even the Granger chit's hand dipped for a moment.

"The base answer is that they are the same plant, aconite, but that's the easy answer," Harry replied. Hermione's hand went down. "This is a potions class, however, and I don't believe it would be that easy. At a guess, I'd say... preparation method, most likely. That can make a huge difference to a potion. The base ingredient, unprepared, would be aconite, with one style of preparation yielding wolfsbane, and the other giving you monkshood."

Snape sneered, and growled out his response. "Twenty point loss for Gryffindor, Potter," he snarled, "for cheating. That last question was not something taught before sixth year."

"Excuse me, sir, but then why were you asking?"Harrir inquired. "I mean no offence, but an unscrupulous sort could ask these questions, then take away points whether the targeted student got them right, when it would be for cheating, or wrong, losing them instead for not being prepared."

"Another twenty for disrespect, and your accusations!" Snape roared, turning an odd shade of red. Across the room, next to her friend Tracy, Daphne straightened up. There was this glimmer about Snape, almost a shadow of a shadow...

"I beg your pardon, sir," Harrir replied. "After your inspiring speech, I thought I might enjoy this class, and the subtle science as you termed it. I am told that my birth-mother was quite good at it. But you keep removing these points for things I haven't done, and I begin to wonder why. I haven't been here long enough for you to bear a grudge for anything _I_ may have done, and yet you seem intent on some vendetta. If that's what you wanted, why not just challenge me outright?"

Snape froze. Now that the brat had pushed it this far, he had limited options. On the one hand, he could continue docking points and assigning detentions, and now he would come off as unbelievably petty, a weakness that his Slytherins would lose respect for him over, or he could challenge an _eleven-year-old _boy to a duel, and be seen as vindictive beyond reason. _That_ would certainly help him keep his job. And dementors were all sunshine and rainbows...

Harry smiled. "I'll offer this, sir," he said. "Truce between us. Treat me as any other, mark my grades and teach me fairly, and I'll treat you as any other. Who knows? We might even find ourselves, unlikely though it may sound, respecting each other."

Even the Slytherins gaped at him. They were waiting for Snape's explosion, and a huge smirk was building on Draco Malfoy's face... if his grin got much wider, the top of his head would fall off...

Snape himself, on the other hand, was turning over the options he had in his mind, and coming to the conclusion that the boy was in the wrong House. But for now... "Very well, _Potter._ We have a truce for now. Step one foot out of line, however..."

"As you say, sir," Harrir replied calmly. "Perhaps if you use the name Odinson, it will help."

The rest of the class passed in near silence, except for Ron and Neville blowing up their boil-removing potion, and being sent to the hospital wing with all the resultant and painful boils on display. Harry had become almost a school legend overnight, above and beyond the Boy-Who-Lived mess. As the rest of the class filed out towards the Great Hall for lunch, Harrir stepped closer to Daphne. "That was interesting," she said. "Father... my mortal one... said that Snape has loathed Gryffindor since before he graduated, and that he'd never let it go."

Harrir grinned. "I blame Uncle Fox," Harrir announced. "It isn't always his fault, but it's usually a safe bet anyway."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was looking over the list of candidates for the now-vacant post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. "_Gilderoy Lockhart... still roaming the world. Remus Lupin... too close to Lord Black. Alastor Moody... doesn't retire for two years. I still have uses for Severus, so I don't want him in the cursed position, yet._" One by one, he discarded the various files, until he was left with just two. Staring at the covers he ran through the advantages and liabilities of each, of Charles Vaughn and Thaddeus Bastion. Each had his merits, Charles with his unusual Contramantic abilities, and Thaddeus with his very potent shields and wards. How to decide? Fawkes flew down to the desk, nudging at one file. Albus smiled and picked it up, wandlessly return9ing the other to its place in his shelves.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 9: A Meeting Long Denied.**_

The storm broke over Hogsmeade, pelting the valley with a chill and heavy rain. The third-years and older students bemoaned the mess that had been made of their plans, to the tune of vanishingly small sympathy from the younger students. Harrir and his two best friends stood by the wide arched windows on the fourth floor over the courtyard and watched the weather hammering the castle, flashes of lightning followed shortly afterwards by roaring thunder.

Hermione had always felt an affinity for thunderstorms, her hair becoming even more bushy and unmanageable was a small price to pay for the exhilaration she felt as such storms played out their fury on the world. Now she reached out, extending her new-found divinity and called a scrap of lightning to her hand, where the nigh-coherent energy pulsed and danced for a moment before she once more sent it back to the sky. She still wasn't comfortable with her Aesir name, Thrud, for she had been Hermione for all her short, if now immortal, life.

Harrir also loved a good storm, as the thunder reminded him quite strongly of the times Thor and he had played such games as can be devised that involve hitting a small round ball with a length of wood. If Harrir hurled the ball, it was never seen again, whereas if he took his turn at bat, said bat better served afterwards as kindling.

Daphne, on the other hand, had never appreciated the noise and glory of a storm, although seeing her two friends' enjoyment of the same was enough to bring a sly smile to her face. It was enough for her that they enjoyed it. Turning, she glanced around the corridor, noting the looks on the other students', and a few teachers', faces. It was difficult, in a way, to know who and what she really was. It truly set her apart from the others in her House, even Tracy Davis, who'd been her best friend for years, just couldn't wrap her mind around the drastic difference that Daphne being Hela made to the Aesir girl. That, and her physical characteristics... the split in colouration between her right and left still put many people ill at ease when around her. She returned her attention to Harry and Hermione in time to catch Harry's muttered phrasing.

"I hope it stops for this afternoon," he said. "Then we can learn to fly on the brooms... I've never ridden a broom before, you know?"

"You haven't?" Hermione asked him.

"Nope," he replied. "I've ridden horses, an oversized wolf, a co-operative sea serpent, an uncooperative unicorn, goats with attitude, a golden boar, a giant eagle, a dragon and a motorbike, as well as Sleipnir as both steed and motorbike, but never a broom. Can't wait to see how it feels."

Glancing down into the courtyard he spotted two figures that were as little like each other as night and day. The one was tall, seven feet tall if he was an inch, and muscular. The build he possessed would have most professional body builders either drooling in envy or crying with frustration. The strength he obviously possessed was there for all to see as his muscles moved as he walked, talking quietly to his smaller companion. His outfit was similar to that of a biker, with a leather jacket not unlike Harrir's, and sturdy denim pants. The most obvious clue to his _not_ being a motorcycle gang member was the hammer that dangled from his right hand, loosely carried. It was a solid block of metal, squared for its length and etched with ancient runes. The work was not goblin, that much was certain, and it had the look of Dwarven manufacture, such as had not been seen in the UK for centuries. Harrir grinned, and turned his attention to the 'smaller' man.

It was readily apparent that this man was only smaller relative to the massive man beside him. The attention the two were garnering was coming to the notice of both the staff and the students, and drew the two Aesir girls' attention as well. The bright red hair of the smaller stranger proclaimed his identity to Harrir, and the ready grin and ill-hidden humour and mischief in his eyes said this one would have given the marauders a run for their money. He stood six feet tall, hardly short at all, and his slender build evoked the image of a swimmer, or a sprinter, rather than a powerhouse. The daggers on his belt seemed his only concession to the possibility of conflict, as his fine garments, again similar in style to Harrir's, were in no way protective.

"Who are they?" seemed the most common question around the courtyard, and there were few who could answer it. Harrir and certain followers of the Aesir might be able, but most of the muggleborn had been led far astray by the comic books that the muggles published... although they did get the hammer right.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, my brother?" The thunder god muttered to the god of mischief, as they set foot within the school's courtyard. He was of two minds as to the question of meeting their long-lost daughters so soon. It had been quite literally years, over a decade in fact, since the Aesir princesses had been abducted, and although they had vague recollections of previous cycles of their existence (Dratted Nordic storytellers, putting the whole doom-and-gloom tale of Ragnarok in mortals' minds for their beliefs to shape), what he remembered of Thrud from those cycles would not be applicable now. The mortal life they'd lived would have removed their own memories of their Aesir existences, and they would be discovering everything about themselves anew, from the perspective of one who must learn it all from scratch.

Loki chuckled. He owed Harrir, and he knew it. No-one really wanted to spend any length of time with their eyes being burned by snake venom, especially an immortal who couldn't escape the pain by dying. "You know as well as I what the All-father said," he replied. He'd managed to convince his sons that today wasn't a good day to greet their long-lost sister, but had promised them a proper introduction when she felt she was ready. "Today we meet them, and speak of the gifts he had made for them. Then we go and speak with their mortal parents, and see where life goes from there."

"I know that," Thor said. "I'm just not happy at the thought of my child in danger here... or anywhere else for that matter. That dark sorcerer that tried to slay our little brother isn't dead yet, and his madness may yet claim our kin." Loki gave a few minutes thought to that as all around them, the students of Hogwarts pointed and whispered. The two gods were an event that not many could comprehend, something outside the normal day at the school.

"I agree, brother, but he said the crucial locus was here." Loki's answer failed to comfort the Thunderer, unsurprisingly. As the Headmaster and several other members of the staff emerged into the courtyard, the Trickster spoke once more, in low tones, even as the trio of godlings left the window above them. "They have to break Harrir's prophecy before they can break Ragnarok. Otherwise, whosoever's behind all this, be it Surt or Niddhog, will bring about a true ending for all the Nine Realms."

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was not the sort of man to believe in any higher powers, be they gods or other wizards or witches. He could not bring himself to trust any other with the dire information that the prophecy involving the Dark Lord had given him, and so he'd gathered those he could manoeuvre, as chess-pieces on a board. He was the White King of course, with Minerva in place as the White Queen, while Filius and Severus were the Knights. It had been a difficult task to make Severus the White Knight instead of the Black, but he was certain he'd managed it. Rubeus was obviously a Rook, very blunt and straightforward, and he had many Pawns. Albus was still keeping an eye out for the 'missing pieces' for his side.

When the two strangers had simply walked through the wards about Hogwarts as if they were no more than air that he'd begun to worry, and gathered the strongest available members of the staff, Minerva, Filius and Severus, along with Hagrid for physical muscle (wizards and witches often underestimated the effectiveness of brute force) and moved to the courtyard to intercept them. As the group emerged, Filius stopped in his track, as did Hagrid, both sketching out some nigh-apologetic bows before straightening, and keeping their hands well away from their wands. Minerva, unsure why two of her contemporaries would act thus, nevertheless followed their lead, while Severus and Albus waited, wands in hand (although pointed at the ground... they'd just seen three-fifths of their 'force' stand down, after all) for the strangers to act.

It was the Headmaster who attempted to break what he _thought_ was a stalemate. "Who are the two of you, and what business brings you to Hogwarts?" he demanded, putting as much of his authority as he could manage into the question. Unfortunately, neither god was easy to intimidate, nor were they likely to overlook any insults they perceived. On top of that, Thor had an infamously short fuse.

"We are Thor and Loki Odinson," the large god answered, voice filled with the fury of a raging storm. "Our business lies with our brother and daughters, and not with some old mortal in a dress. We await them here."

Albus hesitated a moment as the import of the Thunderer's words sank in. Extending his senses, he could _feel_ the power within these two, but it was different to that of wizardry, although the shorter stranger, Loki it seemed, had that, too. He wasn't sure where they'd gotten this... essence was the only word that fit... but he knew they had it, a power he knew nothing of, a familiar power, too, if only the old wizard could recall where and when he'd felt it...

Severus Snape was not experienced enough a wizard to feel the hidden power within the two men before him. The tall one was obviously a brute, and the other might have some small power as a wizard, but had no wand. If he could assert his own power to get the answers that Dumbledore wanted, he could play his own games a little while longer. With that thought in mind, he raised his wand. "You will answer the question!" he spat. "Unless you wish to know what being a slug feels like... Actually, I think you should..."

Even as the Headmaster raised his empty hand to stop the Potions Master, the black-clad man began the spell he'd decided on, only to be interrupted by the headlong arrival of three young godlings. Seeing what the Head of Slytherin was about to do, Harrir threw himself forwards even faster, driving himself into the back of the older wizard's knees, and sending the spell off-course, where it struck Loki, instead of the original target, Thor, and to no effect. The two fledgling goddesses stared as Harrir snatched Snape's wand from his hand and threw it across the courtyard, before climbing off the teacher's back, to the angry mutterings of said teacher. "What do you think you're about, Potter? Assaulting a teacher? You can be-"

"Harrir Odinson, Snape," the boy interrupted the adult's rant before it could begin. "I think I was saving your life, sir. Should that spell have landed, it would not have done aught but make my brothers mad. Loki has a decent sense of humour, and can laugh at himself like no other. Besides, any shape he changes into is because he wants to. But Thor, the Thunderer, Strongest of the Aesir, he who drank enough to cause the tides, who lifted Jormungand from the sea twice and wields Mjolnir, the Hammer no other can even lift save one, has a temper, and little humour to be made mock of." He drew a breath as he glared at the ungrateful teacher lifting himself from the ground. "You know what? It's not worth it. Go ahead and be as petty as you wish, as mean as you can. Thrice what you send forth shall return unto you, and much joy may you have of it!"

Harrir turned to his adopted brothers. "I have to say, that was fast. I only sent word the day before last. Brothers, might I introduce you to your daughters?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 10: Of Gifts and Their Giving.**_

The Headmaster's office would have been somewhat crowded with the number of people who would have been present, so Harrir suggested an abandoned classroom as an alternative. The recognition the two girls had shown their Aesir fathers was nothing shy of miraculous, some response that was set deep within their souls as opposed to any memory they actually had.

Once away from the crowds, Harrir had stepped forward. "Headmaster, before you butt in and start asking questions that may upset everyone, I have a task to finish. My brothers of the last nine years have been without their daughters for a decade, and there will be no more delays," he said. Turning to the various divinities in the room, he began the introductions. "Lord Thor Odinson, god of the thunder, strongest of the Aesir, supreme charioteer and wielder of Mjolnir, may I present to you Hermione Granger, also named Thrud Thorsdaughter, goddess of Power, First rider of the Valkyrior?" He had barely finished when Hermione had promptly glomped the Thunderer, delivering one of the hugs that her mortal family had come to both love and dread, for she didn't hold back any of her love... or strength. Thor, however, merely returned it in kind.

"My thanks, Harrir," the massive warrior-god spoke, tears of joy welling in his eyes. "I owe you a debt, little brother."

The godling grinned in reply. "No, big brother," he answered, "you don't. Family never does." He turned his gaze to the Trickster-god. "Your turn, now. Lord Loki Odinson, god of mischief, the Fire born from the Frost, Trickster of the Aesir and Uncle Fox, may I present to you Hela Lokisdaughter, goddess of Death, Queen of the Restless Dead?"

Daphne's hug was hesitant, and Loki was not as enthusiastic in the embrace as Thor, but the emotions behind the hugging were the same. Harrir smiled in satisfaction as they did, and turned to the teachers who'd been quite patient with the whole thing, although Snape's patience had been strained severely. The greasy-haired Potions Master was a hair's breadth from exploding at the sheer effrontery of these children, and this... this... _play-acting_... He didn't believe that these intruders were gods any more than he believed James Potter was a good man, or that Harry Potter wasn't some arrogant, puffed-up princeling. It was with these thoughts foremost in his mind that he spoke.

"As wonderful as this supposed reunion may be," he sneered, "it does nothing to address the issue at hand. What business brings these... gods... to the halls of Hogwarts?"

"You doubt us?" Thor's voice rose, harsh and filled with anger, and stood. As he rose, Snape drew his wand at lightning speed, but even before the slender focus could be brought to bear his head disappeared into the Thunderer's massive hand as it closed over his face. Snape was hurled through the door... without it being opened... before anyone could move. Thankfully for him, he was unconscious when he hit the floor, or the broken bones from his passage would have been sheer agony for him. Loki lifted the black oak and dragon heartstring wand from the floor where it had fallen, and after muttering a few words over it, handed it to Dumbledore with a _very _nasty smile.

"You will see he gets this back, won't you?" he said. "Oh, and we refuse to suffer that... _person_... to remain in our presence. Next time he crosses Thor, he's likely to be thrown from the window."

* * *

Dumbledore sat in his office, staring at Snape's wand as it lay there on his desk. The Potions Master had been delivered to Madam Pomfrey, under the effects of a body-bind curse to immobilise his limbs, and had been discovered to have broken both of his humerus and both femurs in his passage through the door. Now the Headmaster waited until he heard from the school nurse that the man was again conscious, as he mused the events in that room. He had been surprised by the grins on all three children's faces, he didn't believe that Severus was _that_ unpopular in the school, and Harry's... sorry, Harrir's (why did the boy insist on being someone else, anyway?)... comment, "The truce is over," he'd said, had the old wizard puzzled for a second beneath his mask of disappointment.

"Then you will not be permitted to speak with the children." The ultimatum the Headmaster had delivered had fallen flat, however, undermined by the most unlikely person in the room... Hagrid. The half-giant's laughter had been deep, and loud, and long. When he'd eventually recovered enough breath, the groundskeeper had waved his hand at the two adult Aesir.

"Good luck wi' tha', sir," he'd said. "The one is the Trickster, who laughs at locks and wards, and once kidnapped the most well-protected goddess in Asgard as a prank, an' the other'n is pretty much unstoppable, short of Ragnarok. My advice, sir, is don' get between either one and their fambily, sir. It would hurt less t' jump from yon Astronomy Tower." He'd then walked from the room chuckling, of all things. Filius had merely bowed to both gods before nodding to the children and absenting himself. When Minerva had started speaking, he'd thought he had someone in his corner against these 'supposed' deities, but that had been quickly disproven by the content of her statement.

"Hogwarts policy is to always have a senior member of the staff present in any unexpected situations, which you will admit, this is. As the Deputy Headmistress and the Head of House for one of the students involved, I can quite handily fill that role, and we won't be keeping the Headmaster from his no doubt more important business... although now that I think on it, perhaps he can answer me some questions I've had for over nine years now..." Dumbledore had, to all intents and purposes, been routed, fleeing the field of verbal battle rather than tell his Deputy why he'd had her watching the Dursleys on that November the first, so many years ago.

It was infuriating. Someone else had all the answers, and they weren't sharing them with him. That was _not_ the way things were meant to be, in the world according to Dumbledore.

* * *

While the Headmaster sat and pondered, the two Aesir were catching up with their daughters, hearing all the ins and outs and challenges of their mortal lives, while Harrir read a missive from Odin. The letter had been written in the All-father's usual manner, Old Norse and runes, and told Harrir of the wyrd that cloaked Hogwarts. It was here that the next blow in the War between the Aesir and their foes would fall, and so it was here that the three godlings were needed. Unless they managed to gain employment in the castle, not something that the over-controlling Headmaster was likely to agree to, the adult Aesir could not enter without reason, such as they had today. It was only because they were the parents of two of the students and brother of a third that such a thing was possible for even a few hours. The letter spoke of them earning their gifts, and told him to look to Loki for further details. Lastly, the Norns had been by, gloating over some event due on Samhain, what most mortals named Halloween these days, and implored him to keep an eye out on that day.

After the girls' Aesir fathers had caught up on the young goddesses' lives, they took on a more serious demeanour as Loki broke the news of Odin's gifts to them.

"The All-father mentioned to us that three weapons were here, in this particular region of Midgard, and that he wanted the three of you to take possession of them, like Thor and Mjolnir, or Odin and Gungnir," the Trickster said. "He was of the mind that these weapons would serve you well, and gave us instructions for you." Clearing his throat, he began to recite.

"_Three weapons stand from ancient days,_

_Awaiting the hands to wield them,_

_Unyielding through the passage of years._

_Beyond and yet within the walls,_

_Stone upon stone, the hidden key to find,_

_Relentless found within false key,_

_That waits the hand of Choice._

_In darkness and peril, the web-strung heart,_

_And by highest hearth unhidden,_

_Inevitable stands divided,_

_As the Mistress, so too the spear._

_The Rider's burden lightened by its weight,_

_Within the secret undisclosed,_

_Unbreakable lies waiting,_

_That Prophecy may be shattered._"

Loki's voice trailed off into silence, and the weight of Odin's message passed from him to his little brother, niece and daughter. Looking into the eyes of the godlings, he sighed. "I'm sorry we cannot help as much as we would wish... at least it's not a prophecy... but should we assist you before the event that truly averts Ragnarok, we would bring it that much faster."

Thor grinned. "But brother, do you not realise?" he asked, striving for a look of cunning. "Father has given them gifts, so we can grant them our own!" So saying he delved into his jacket with his left hand, bringing out a strangely delicate silver whistle, shaped like a winged horse. "What use to be the First Rider of the Vakyrior, with naught to ride? This can call to you a steed, as yet unnamed and never before ridden, with wings of silver." After handing the whistle to Hermione, his hand again dove into the confines of his jacket, this time emerging with another whistle, this one carved from ash in the shape of a howling wolf to present to Daphne. Your big brother, not the _really_ big one though, insisted we bring this for you. It's meant to call him when you need him, so don't lose it, alright?"

Loki grimaced at the fact that his own son (a giant, horse-sized wolf of a son, but nonetheless) felt Thor more reliable for the delivery of this gift than he, but then he was the god of mischief... For a moment, he pondered what they were to give Harrir... then he had the perfect idea, and grinned... smirked almost, but without the malicious undertones.

"As for you, Harrir," he said, drawing upon his own inner nature as a shape-shifter, and forming a ball of fire-like light in his hand to duplicate that gift somewhat, "I give the gift of the Wild Shape. You may choose a beast, and their form shall be as much yours as your own." He passed the globe to his adopted little brother, and as the energy moved from his hand to Harrir's it changed, going from the golden fire of Loki's eyes, to the emerald hue that was Harrir's own. As the gift slowly became part of the young godling and wizard, Harrir announced his choice, seeing it form in the emerald flames before being absorbed.

"My choice is the eagle-owl, who rides the wind on silent wings by day or by night, who stands for wisdom applied with strength," he said, smiling at his brothers. This gift was just perfect.

* * *

Sadly, having delivered the gifts, the Aesir adults could not stay long, and as they left, Thor looked up at the sky and made a cutting gesture near his throat, and the storm cut off instantly. One last little thing he could do for the children as he departed. Harrir had really been looking forward to the flying lessons...

* * *

If there was a downside to the day, it was that the weather had forced Madam Hooch to consolidate the flying lessons into a single class, and was thus forced to ask the various captains of the Quidditch teams for assistance. A large problem arose with the number of brooms the school possessed and the taking of turns to learn on them. No-one really got a chance to showcase their talents, and when Neville accidentally launched himself too hard in his nervousness, the Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood was right there to help him take control of his broom. Daphne was easily more than competent, but not overly so. Hermione had been nervous of heights for most of her life, even dreading the elevator at the Grangers' dental practice, but she too had little problem... as Thrud, the First Rider of the Valkyrior had no fear of flying to hinder her.

Harrir, however, truly shone, even in his short time aboard the broom, a true natural living up to the translation of his name: He who rides. An awed Wood immediately asked that he join the Gryffindor Quidditch team, as a chaser or a seeker, leading to a puzzled look on the godling's face as he spoke the words that the older Lion felt blasphemous.

"What in the Nine Realms is Quidditch?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 11: The Best Defence...**_

The entrance of the new Defence professor to the Great Hall the next morning was quite a show, as his cloak, a deep red expanse of cloth with golden trim snapped and billowed about him, much as Snape's much darker cloak was wont to do. It certainly drew the eye to the man himself. A physically impressive frame, obviously well-muscled in a toned way, as evidenced by the way he moved with each measured step he took. The garb beneath his cloak was cut for ease of motion, and held a certain elegance within the simple style. He had many obvious pockets, though what each held none could guess.

It was the man's broad, leonine features that caught the most attention however, well-tanned as they were. This was a man who had worked hard in the outdoors, bearing an almost weather-beaten cast to his face, and the resemblance of his features to a lion was further accentuated by his deliberate choice of hairstyle, with the long black mane of hair falling to his shoulders, loosely gathered by a leather tie at the back, and the equally dark beard that fell across his chest, with no moustache. No-one could see his wand. His eyes flared with a strongly magical light, as his obvious anger settled on a target.

The three godlings had barely been seated a few moments at this point, and everyone in the Great Hall was treated to an incredible display, that began when Professor Dumbledore rose and began to speak. "I would like everyone to welcome Professor Quirrel's replacement as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Thaddeus Bastion..."

"Zip it, Dumbledore," the angry leonine wizard snapped. "I haven't agreed yet. I said I would see. I have some questions for you to answer right now concerning the posting. I've seen the syllabus that... that... _fool_ was planning to use. He wasn't even up to Ministry standards as posted, let alone _real _educational levels. And there was a curse on the position... were you too cheap to hire a breaker?"

"Wait, did you say _was_?" Professor McGonagall gasped in shock. She'd heard rumours of such a curse, but couldn't find any sign of it anywhere in the castle.

"Yes, was," said Bastion shortly. It seemed obvious that his temper was strained nigh to breaking point. "What I want to know is why all these previous wonderful teachers of the subject didn't notice it. Especially since it seems centred, not in the Defence professor's quarters, nor the classrooms, but the Headmaster's office. It was subtle, but it was there. The candidate, sitting in the chair before the Headmaster's desk, is told they have the post and the curse latches on to them. From there it has a year to take effect and drive out or kill the victim." He turned again to the Headmaster. "Well, Albus, I'm waiting? How did you not notice that your own office was the origin point?"

Silence ruled the Great Hall as the man's words sank in. Then murmured conversations broke out across the room, all the while Dumbledore struggled to defend his position.

His efforts were brushed aside. "Never mind," Bastion said. "I've dealt with it. The Tomb of Khefnut Da'ahken didn't kill me, this jinx never stood a chance." He turned to the Great Hall and spoke in a voice that carried and cut through conversations with ease, almost a roar, but not one that required any great effort or shouting on his part. "QUIET!" Again, silence reigned.

"Much better," the leonine wizard said. "My name is Thaddeus Culann Bastion. Professor Bastion to you. I was a Gryffindor here twelve years ago, and I went on to become a curse-breaker in Egypt. Freelance, at that, which meant the really dangerous tombs, too. From what I learned there, as well as from several experts in the field, I went on to become a ward-crafter. I have the dubious distinction that none of my wards have ever been broken as of yet, but that could change any day. I am here to teach you Defence against the Dark Arts. I have supplied my own choice of reading materials, which wait for you in your common rooms, and I expect you to have read at least the Maxims by your first class. I will see you then." Professor Bastion turned, and with a respectful nod to McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout and Pomfrey, left the room, with whispers and rumours springing up in his wake.

Harrir grinned. It Looked like Defence was going to get _very_ interesting from now on.

* * *

Harrir's first Defence lesson was not until Wednesday, and as he entered the amphitheatre-like classroom that the teacher had chosen, he saw that all four Houses were present. Each desk was able to seat three, and he wasted no time claiming one for himself and the two girls who had rapidly become his best friends. Daphne pointed at the covered board behind the teacher.

"I wonder what he's going to teach us?" she asked, sending Hermione into a new frenzy of speculative thought. They were still no closer to solving the riddles of their new weapons than when they'd received the message. It had been frustrating, and they'd all been looking forward to this class as a distraction from the conundrum. When the last student entered, the door closed.

"As you may have guessed," the leonine teacher spoke as he stepped from behind his desk, "I am your teacher for this course, Defence Against the Dark Arts. A lot of teachers, from what I am able to tell, start out with a discussion on what exactly defines the Dark Arts." Even as Hermione started to raise her hand, he went on. His next words caused her to drop her hand back to the desk. "I find that an unnecessary waste of time. What constitutes a Dark Art is _not_, contrary to what may be said, the point of these lessons. The key point of these lessons is _Defence_." There was a moment of silence as they absorbed this, wondering how they hadn't seen that, broken by the yell of someone outside the door.

"You'd better come in Mr Weasley, the effects aren't going away until you do." Every gaped at the teacher, who somehow knew what had happened... As the redhead came into class, the others in his year got a good look at him. His robes had been changed to a bubblegum pink hue, and all his hair stood straight up. "For those of you who may think this class is a waste of time, let me introduce you to ten key concepts: The Ten Commandments of Survival." A wave of the teacher's wand removed the cloth covering the blackboard behind him. "Once Mr Weasley has been seated, we will discuss these, and move on to the first few Maxims."

Harrir and the girls had spent some of their study time reading the book that had been waiting in their common rooms on the day Professor Bastion had arrived. The book, _A Multitude of Maxims for Militantly-Minded Mages_, was not large, and each page had the Maxim as a heading, and a lot of blank space underneath. The three godlings focused on the Teachers words as he began to explain the lines on the board.

"Don't bring a knife to a gunfight." Bastion spoke in his deep rumbling voice, cutting through other conversations like a sword through milk. "Or rather, don't bring _just_ a knife. On the surface, it sounds like nonsense, but what is its real meaning? The answer is simple. Know what you're getting into, and be prepared for that... but it never hurts to have a back-up plan. For those of you who have no contact with muggles, a gun is a far more advanced and useful version of a crossbow. Further research is encouraged." He surveyed the room, assessing who got it, and who was just faking it. "Miss Granger-Thorsdaughter, the next one if you please."

Hermione blinked as she stood, not expecting the teacher to call on her for this. "Battle plans never survive contact with the enemy... so be the enemy," she read aloud, understanding that this teacher wanted them to think, not just regurgitate facts, an attitude she could get behind. "The first part is an old military saying, because a battle is far too chaotic to stick to a plan when you're fighting for your life... but I don't understand the second half, sir."

"Very well, Miss Granger-Thorsdaughter. That's a bit of a mouthful, do you object if I simply use Granger?" At Hermione's quick headshake, he nodded and went on. "Some say that what you don't know can't hurt you. These people are wrong. Dead wrong. What you don't know can kill you. Indeed the only thing worse than no knowledge, is not enough. Mr Malfoy, perhaps you can enlighten us?"

Draco's sneer was in full force as he answered. "Since you can't be guaranteed of winning, join the winning side," he said, drawing nods from Crabbe, Goyle, Nott and Pansy Parkinson, and glares from the rest of the class.

"Thank you Mr Malfoy," the teacher drawled, with a fair bit of Scot entering his accent. "You have just told everyone in this room that you're an untrustworthy little scunner. Hardly Slytherin behaviour, you should have made them find out for themselves... oh, wait, your name's Malfoy, they already knew. You are also completely wrong. Mr Odinson?"

The entire class had gaped at the comment about Draco's trustworthiness, uncertain if they should protest or laugh loud and long in agreement. When Professor Bastion called on Harrir it started them out of the shock. "The latter segment of this line is a reminder that what's happening to your plans is also happening to theirs, so be ready to capitalise on it," the dark-haired godling said. The class was _really_ enjoying this lesson...

* * *

"Very well, now that the Ten are out of the way, we shall speak on the Maxims one through three. Maxim one: Pillage, then Burn. Anyone?" Professor Bastion had rapidly become the most popular teacher of Defence at Hogwarts in decades, although it had taken three classes to get this far in his lessons. Snape had contested his points deduction from Draco,but sheathed it in accusations of anti-Slytherin prejudice, on the day of that first class, at dinner. Professor Bastion had smiled, and said that if the Potions Master insisted, he could reverse all points he'd assessed the Slytherins for. When Snape had angrily insisted, the leonine wizard had announced to Hogwarts that he was reversing the points he'd evaluated for Slytherin... and the green counter had dropped half its points. Snape had been several kinds of furious about that. Now they were finally getting into the meat of his lessons. Each class was split between what he called attitude, theory and practical. The first was discussion of his handed-out literature and always took up the first third of his lesson, while the defensive theory took up the next, and the last third was devoted to actual practice. He pointed at Neville Longbottom.

"Keep your priorities straight and don't get ahead of yourself," the Longbottom scion answered, having had a week to read the material and think on it. "If you 'burn' before you 'pillage', you lose what you were aiming for."

"Very good Mr Longbottom, five points for Gryffindor." The smile on the boy's face was amazing. This was why the leonine wizard taught. "Moving on, we have the second Maxim: An auror in motion outranks a Hit-wizard who doesn't know what's going on. Hmm. Mr Malfoy?"

Draco's sneers had grown less frequent, but were still present. "Hit-wizards always outrank aurors, so this one seems like nonsense. But then you wouldn't be using it to make a point. I'd guess, listen to the one who has the information?"

"Five points to Mr Malfoy," Professor Bastion said, to the dismay of many Gryffindors. "If someone has the information you need, you're a fool if you don't listen. Now, last one for today, very important: Maxim three, A curse-breaker at a dead run outranks everybody." There was one hand raised... that of Daphne. "Miss Greengrass? Your interpretation if you will?"

"If the expert on the matter thinks its bad, then its bad. Why bother hiring said expert if you won't listen to his advice?" She spoke with a quiet pride in her words, and the teacher awarded five more points for Slytherin.

"That concludes our 'Attitude' section for today," Professor Bastion said. "Now to theory..."

* * *

The days passed quickly, and there flying lessons had come around several times, with Oliver Wood sometimes begging Harrir to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team, although the messy-haired godling couldn't see the point. The game just wasn't what he wanted, regardless of the fact he could ride a broom like no-one else alive. It was on their way back to the castle that they got their first breakthrough in the puzzles of their weapons' locations. Daphne had stumbled a little as they approached the rise towards the school, and the other two took the opportunity to sit as they all three needed to recover their breath. Hermione's roving eye had caught sight of the stonework that made up the castle, and in particular, one tiny detail.

"That's odd..." she murmured, not loud, but enough to attract the attention of her friends. "It's in the wrong place..."

"What's in the wrong place?" Harrir asked, concerned. Daphne's face mirrored his expression.

Hermione looked at them. "That keystone," she replied. "By all the books on this style of engineering and architecture I've read..."

"Fifty percent of those in existence," Daphne muttered.

"...It shouldn't be that low." Hermione ignored Daphne's interruption. It was no more than twenty percent, after all. "That puts a weakness in the structure of the castle, and there's no way it would have lasted this long under the weight of the castle. Either it's magically reinforced, a possibility we can't rule out..."

Harrir sat up straight as it dawned on him, and fumbled the parchment with the instructions on it out of his inner pocket. "...Or it's a 'false key'," he exclaimed excitedly, finding the second stanza. "Look, here, _Beyond and yet within the walls, Stone upon stone, the hidden key to find, Relentless found within false key, That waits the hand of Choice._"

Hermione spotted his meaning at once, and explained it to her... cousin? "_Did it really take me this long to understand that?_" she thought.

"The first line tells us where to look, the second what to look at, the third what to look for, and the fourth who should be looking!" Hermione voice was nearly rumbling with thunder, while her hair stood larger from the contained lightning. Daphne shook her head in confusion. She was very nearly as intelligent as Hermione, but she still didn't quite understand. As Hermione approached the misplaced keystone, Harrir explained further.

"Beyond and yet within the walls tells us it's neither inside, nor is it outside," he said, and Daphne nodded, her two-tone hair rocking forward and back as she did, "so it has to in the walls themselves."

Daphne's eyes went round as she gasped. "Oh! That means that the next line, Stone upon stone, the hidden key to find is talking about the keystones." She frowned a moment as she thought. "Hogwarts has thirteen keystones, according to Hermione's favourite book," she muttered, "but all of them are on the inside of the castle. This one doesn't belong here, so it has to be the 'false key'." She turned to Harrir. "But what about that 'hand of Choice' line?"

The green-eyed godling waved his hand at Hermione, who had just reached _through_ the keystone to grasp something beyond. "First Rider of the Valkyrior, and the valkyrie is..."

"...The Chooser of the Slain!" Daphne finished, returning her attention to Hermione as she dragged a massive war-axe free of the castle's foundations. The haft of the axe was as long as the fledgling goddess was tall, and the leading edge curved in a viciously lethal simplicity. The spike on the reverse of the blade was worked to resemble a wolf's head, and runes spelled out the weapon's name on the haft between the grip and the blade.

Hermione could hardly contain herself, shouting to the skies in a manner not unlike her godly father, in Old Norse, no less. «_Now this day I take up my weapon, and lay claim to Ubyelig, Relentless, till the day I fall in battle!_» There was a clap of thunder from a clear blue sky, and all through the valley, people paused in their daily business, wondering what portents now unfolded before them.

* * *

It was little surprise that as they entered the Great Hall, Hermione attracted stares. They hadn't learned shrinking charms yet (having been told such were third-year coursework), and She didn't have any expanded-interior pockets or bags to put it in. The one she did have was full of books, and she had left it in the Ravenclaw dorms since she didn't expect to be reading during the flying lesson. Thus it was little wonder that she was intercepted by Snape before making it to her table. "Miss Granger," the greasy-haired teacher sneered at her as he spoke, "you will hand over that thing at once."

The Metallic Trio could barely believe it. Here he stood, having so recently been trounced by the bushy-haired witch's divine father, having seen a lot of what she herself was capable of, and he still made demands? The man was severely convinced of his own superiority, or he was just too vindictive and spiteful to survive.

Hermione's eyes narrowed a little, and she slipped a little into the mannerisms of Thrud, recognising a similarity between her own weapon, and her father's hammer. "If you're sure you want it... catch!" At that, she casually tossed the axe, underhand and one-handed, towards Snape's chest.

The Headmaster's eyes had time for a single twinkle, and the Potions Professor for half a sneer, before the axe landed in his grip across his chest... and kept going, slamming the wind from him and driving him to the floor, _hard_. The high-pitched keen of a man with no air trying and failing to breathe in was clearly audible in the Great Hall.

Harrir and Daphne smirked behind their hands as they wandered towards their tables, even as the staff descended on the incapacitated teacher. Despite all the spells they brought to bear, and even Hagrid's vast strength, none of them could budge the axe.

Thrud stood quietly by until Snape's face had gone an odd blue, then stepped forward again. "Excuse me, professors," she said politely. "Would you like me to take my axe back, now?"


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter world or characters. Those belong to J K Rowling, with gratitude for letting us play with them. The basic challenge comes from Whitetigerwolf, and thanks for the idea and framework.

_**Chapter 12: A Battle Joined and Enjoyed.**_

Puzzling over the remaining stanzas occupied an amount of their free time over the next few weeks, and they were doing well in all their classes as well. Wood _finally _got the message that Harrir wasn't interested in a game where you got chased by self-propelled malicious bowling balls, leaving him with a little more free time. Hermione took some time to practice with her new axe, discovering that, although it _looked_ awkward and heavy, she could easily wield it in one hand with little difficulty. Surprisingly, it was Hagrid who helped her most here, giving her instruction in how to wield it, an art that took more finesse than most would have thought.

Keeping up in their schoolwork was easy enough, provided they kept at it, and they did a little more than was asked, and Harrir and Daphne managed to tone down Hermione's drive to excel enough that she didn't come across as a show-off. Harrir even started teaching the girls the Futhark runes and their meanings. "Don't rely too much on the books," he'd told them. "There's at least one glaring flaw in each of them."

They looked forwards to Professor Bastion's classes, as much as they did Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall and Charms with Professor Flitwick, and that was saying something. Their last lesson, just gone, had included the Maxims 29 and 35. The leonine wizard had taken to choosing the lesson's Maxims at random. But it was easy enough to see the meaning of them "The enemy of my enemy is my enemy's enemy. No less, no more." That was an obvious one. Although it seemed hard to get that through some of the students' heads, the idea that your enemy's enemy wasn't necessarily your friend was a good one. As for "That which does not kill you has made a tactical error," the Professor had brought out examples from the 'Blood War' that Voldemort had waged, demonstrating that until the aurors had been authorised lethal force, they had been _losing. _This brought up mention of a third Maxim, which they were told to find and present at their next lesson, with twelve inches of parchment on how they interpreted it. The theory that day _had_ included the definition of the 'Dark Arts', those magics that left a residual taint on the soul and magic of those who wielded them. Such a taint _could_ be cleansed, but until it was, the taint was... addictive, if that was the right word for it, as the wizard or witch would crave the sensation of that taint. The lesson had concluded with a mock-duel... where the only spells permitted were the ones for throwing green or red sparks. From what they could tell, it was intended to get them thinking of uses for the spells beyond signalling.

* * *

The day of Halloween arrived, the Samhain, and the fledgling goddesses received letters from both their mortal and godly parents. Although Harrir was not left out, exchanging letters with Odin and Frigga, he still felt a little down. He had no idea where his mortal parents had been buried, and although he'd been brought up in a loving family, there were times, such as on Halloween, when he felt the ache of their absence keenly. He'd spoken with those who remembered them, getting different takes on what they were like, depending on who was speaking of them. He spent time as an eagle-owl, learning the shape's quirks, and growing to understand it. He even asked Hagrid what he knew of a 'web-strung heart'.

The half-giant had stopped dead in his tracks at that, he looked around to make sure no-one was listening. "Y' didn' 'ear this from me," he whispered, although he could still have been heard a good fifteen feet distant, "but there's acromantula in the Forbidden Forest. Very dangerous they are, although Aragog wouldn' 'arm a fly... too small, y' see? But why d' y' ask?"

"In the heart of the nest is something belonging to Hela... you know, Daphne?... I think it's a spearhead. Umm, how many acromantula?" Harrir was a god of battle, but he wasn't foolish.

"Hmm." Hagrid looked into the forest. "Leave it wi' me, an' I'll see what I can do."

* * *

When Hagrid passed the children on their way to the Great Hall for the feast that night, he handed Daphne a silk-wrapped bundle. "There y' go," he told her. "One spearhead, right where Harrir said it'd be. Not sure 'ow much good it'll do 'thout the haft, but there it is."

Daphne hugged Hagrid's leg, the only part of him she could reliably get her arms around. "Thank you, Hagrid," she exclaimed, "I can't do much in exchange... hang on." Placing the first two fingers of her left hand to her lips, she then reached up... _way _up... and lightly touched his cheek. "There. Now neither illness nor poison may claim you." Turning away from the bemused groundskeeper, she lifted the silk to look at the spearhead.

The length of grey metal that met her eyes matched the same material as Hermione's Relentless, and bore three razor-sharp edges about a central axis. At the base, these flared out and back on the blade, forming a blunt crosspiece of sorts, presumably to stop the targets from pushing themselves further up the haft. The socket for the haft seemed somehow sad and forlorn, incomplete... She decided there and then that she would find the haft if she had to search the entire school brick by brick.

The meal was passing uneventfully enough, when Professor Kettleburn, who taught the third-years and older students Care of Magical Creatures thrust open the doors to the Great Hall screaming "TROLLLLL!" before collapsing in a heap on the floor, bleeding badly from horrible wounds inflicted by something blunt and huge. As Madam Pomfrey assessed his injuries, shaking her head as she determined the poor man would be losing _another_ limb, Professor Dumbledore stood to give his instructions.

The entrance of the troll to the Great Hall changed things at once. The staff hesitated, just a moment, but that moment was enough for the troll to step forwards into the Hall, and shrug its club from its shoulder and swing at the nearest child, Lisa Turpin.

Lisa saw the tree trunk that passed as the troll's club heading in her direction, and closed her eyes. She was just a first year, she shouldn't have this happen to her. All across the hall, students and staff alike cringed, knowing what would happen to the poor girl.

The sound that echoed through the Great Hall was not the wet crunch of a crushed body, but instead the sound of flesh slapping against wood, and wood splintering in response. Although they saw it with their own eyes, everyone, with a few exceptions, had trouble believing what they were seeing. Hermione Granger, bushy hair ablaze with lightning holding back the improvised cudgel of the troll with her bare hands, her fingers sunk deep into the wood of the club...

Before any other response was even thought of, Harrir leapt on top of the club with a cry of "JOYOUS BATTLE!" and ran up the length of wood that his friend held rock steady, despite the troll's best efforts. The troll was then distracted when Daphne plunged her spearhead, which she wielded like a dagger, through its foot. Thus preoccupied, it had no chance to resist as Harrir grabbed the creature by the ears and used that as leverage to drive his knee against the troll's nose, shattering the bone and driving it up and back into the troll's tiny brain. As he sprang to the floor, the troll wiped clumsily at its nose, trying to figure out why the blood wouldn't stop... and finally fell over dead.

Harrir looked almost disappointed. "That's it?" he asked. "Aren't there any more?"

* * *

The Metallic Trio looked around at Dumbledore's office. There was an interesting array of magical artefacts displayed, and the wall behind his desk was covered in portraits of the wizards and witches who had held the position of Headmaster in the past. They could see a perch for a bird, and on it, a small red-gold bird, most likely a phoenix, as it looked an odd blend of songbird and raptor. Daphne found her eyes drawn to the collection of staves that Dumbledore displayed above the mantle on his fireplace, and to either side.

At the insistence of the elderly wizard, Daphne had placed her spearhead, and Hermione her axe, on his desk. Said wizard was currently scrutinising them, wondering how to handle this. Having ordered them to his office after they'd so efficiently dispatched the troll was a reflex on his part, an attempt to limit the flow of hard information, although he knew better than to try and stop rumours. It was unprecedented that such a creature could manage to pass the wards which should have kept such a creature from entering the grounds, and the clean-up was not a task he envied Filch. To make things worse, not one of them showed so much as a scrap of remorse. But if he came down too hard on them, _he _would be seen as being in the wrong... Sometimes he envied the villains.

Questioning the children had led him nowhere. "How did you know what to do?" just led to "Instinct." The three of them, loyal enough to each other for Hufflepuffs, though of their Houses, none of them were Badgers. Finally, he decided his course of action.

"It seems I must give you an award for Special Services to the School," he said, his eyes twinkling. Directing his Legilimency towards the 'godlings' was useless, he discovered. Their thoughts were beyond his reach for some reason, and it was like gradually immersing his mind in raw, concentrated sulfuric acid. Not a pleasant experience, he had to warn Severus about that.

The three friends looked at each other, then turned to the Headmaster. "Why?" asked Harrir. To him, at least, there was nothing 'special' about putting down a rogue mountain troll. "If you insist on rewarding us, would not some more physical memento be better than a piece of plated tin sat in a trophy case somewhere?"

Albus was caught by that answer, as it made as much sense as any proposal he might suggest, and he thought hard. Lifting his wand, he caused a number of objects in his office to glow with a white light. "These objects are either unenchanted, or of little power and harmless. You may each choose one of them. Now, while you choose, could we discuss these weapons, and how you come to have them? If I am not mistaken, this is Uru, a mystical metal most uncommon. Even the dwarves have lost the secrets to crafting it."

Harrir had selected his 'reward' quickly enough, a solid glass orb the size of his two fists together, with a single flaw within that resembled a lightning bolt. "It is," he confirmed. "They're birthday presents, I suppose you could say. Personal gear as defined by the rules, and from my father." He looked up at Dumbledore. "I'll be getting one, as well, as soon as I can figure out where All-father put it."

The bemused Dumbledore ruminated on that thought, while Hermione made her choice, a delicate glass bowl like his dish for lemon drops, charmed to be unbreakable. The winged-horse patterns were what had drawn her to it, no doubt. Daphne's choice however, was the only staff he had that had no power. It was a well-formed stock of yew, five-and-a-half feet long, with dragonhide wrappings up and down the shaft. There was no socket, and no decorative orb at the top as was the wont for a wizard's staff. Albus had long ago come to the conclusion that the staff was incomplete. Still, the runework on it seemed finished, and he was reluctant to deliver _any _staff into the hands of a student. Even as the girl ran her hands over it, Harrir's eyes widened, then narrowed.

"Those are our choices, sir," he said, distracting the Headmaster from his reluctance. It _was_ powerless, as far as he could see. "Do you have anything aught to tell us? Or might we take our belongings and go?"

The old man blinked. "Harry, my boy," he said, and saw the black-haired boy's face harden. He didn't seem to like that familiarity, a pity. "As responsible adults, we can't really let anyone roam the halls of Hogwarts with such deadly weapons."

Hermione looked crestfallen. That was _her_ axe, _her_ Relentless, and she'd only recently gotten it. When Harrir spoke, he lifted her spirits immensely. She should have known he'd have a plan. "Won't that make classes a little difficult?"

Dumbledore's attempt to control the situation derailed quicker than any train crash. "What do you mean?"

"If you don't want us wandering around with deadly weapons, why haven't you confiscated everyone's wands yet?" Harrir said, his flat tone somehow menacing. "There are hundreds, if not thousands, of ways that you can kill someone with one, if you're a wizard or witch."

"I hardly think any of the spells you learn in first year are lethal..." Dumbledore's striving to retake control of the conversation was interrupted by Hermione, even as she retrieved her axe and the silk-wrapped spearhead that belonged to Daphne.

"Have you ever wondered what would happen if a Red Sparks spell is launched from a wand inserted in someone's ear?" she asked in a matter of fact tone. "It quite ruined the watermelon I tested it on... took me ages to find it all." So disturbed by the matter-of-fact recital of the results, not to mention the question, the Headmaster quickly dismissed all three of them, and popped a lemon drop in his mouth as the door closed, sucking on the sour treat to soothe himself. Then he noticed the blank space in his display of staves, and groaned, realising that the other two had distracted him from Miss Greengrass and the staff.

* * *

That evening, in the dorm she shared with Tracy Davis, her best friend through childhood, Daphne unwrapped the spearhead and laid it on the bed by the staff she'd taken from Dumbledore's hearth. The highest office in Hogwarts was that of Headmaster, so 'highest' _wasn't_ a reference to altitude (or she'd have been looking in the Ravenclaw dorms, or Professor Trelawney's quarters) but to status. Hermione had been stunned when Daphne explained that. Not that she'd realised it herself until she saw the length of yew. She carefully slid the haft into the socket on the spearhead, and twisted, the two parts coming together to be whole, then spun the spear about its centre of balance and thrust it skywards, declaiming much as Hermione had. The Old Norse words just came to her, and she suspected that all three of them had as great a command of that tongue as of English.

«_Now this night, I take up my weapon, and lay claim to Uunngåelig, Inevitable, until the day I fall in battle,_» she stated, in a firm, low voice, and Tracy rolled over in her sleep, as all across the castle ghosts shivered as though some one had danced upon their graves. Peeves was found curled up under Snape's bed, shuddering in fear. Only the Fat Friar seemed unworried.

"Good thing _I _died in battle," he smirked.

* * *

Somewhere within Hogwarts, the spirit of Voldemort seethed. He still didn't have full control over this vessel, only being able to fully possess them while they were unconscious, a state that generally accompanied extreme drunkenness, making the body difficult to control. If he'd left the wards a disembodied wraith, he'd no idea how long it would have taken to get back in. The only upside to this person as his vessel was that no-one would even imagine it. The troll plan had failed before it really began, as that Kettleburn fool had led the troll right to its demise before the panic and confusion could really set in. And that dog! No wonder that fool had warned everyone away from that corridor. Although it did seem undisturbed... perhaps Dumbledore had forgotten where he put the stone?

On those rare occasions his vessel managed to get to the Great Hall for dinner, at least since he'd been forced to take refuge inside this waste of flesh, he'd been able to see glimpses of the rest of Hogwarts through her eyes, even if it was a wobbly, distorted view, due both to the thick glasses and the proclivity of the vessel for strong drink. There was one over there, at a table distressingly full of students in yellow and black, who had at least a partial measure of the blood of Muspel... A plan formed slowly in the wraith's mind. He wouldn't be able to maintain control long enough to perform the ritual himself, but he would be able to take advantage of the chaos that would result. He didn't need long, and the stone would be his. All he needed was someone to perform the rite... a convenient patsy... like that Malfoy boy...

* * *

Susan Bones felt a chill run down her spine, and glanced around. No-one else seemed affected, so she shrugged it off and returned her attention to her notes for Transfiguration.

* * *

Odin sat upon his throne, Geri and Freki at his feet, Hugin and Munin on his shoulders, and stared at the gigantic crystal which played out the scenes around Hogwarts. If Harrir needed help, he was ready at a moment's notice to send it, or to go himself, and bear the consequences, Norn's bargain be damned! He'd seen the future of Asgard without Harrir, seen it countless times in cycle after cycle... He knew the great wheel that was life had to turn, but he had learned from the once-mortal that he'd made his son a very important lesson. Although the wheel must turn, the ground it turns upon can be different...

* * *

Far beyond sight and sound and sanity, Niddhog roared its impatience. He was hungry now, and demanded his plans proceed...


End file.
